Eight and a half years ago, I moved from the Bay Area of California to the River District near downtown Asheville. That area of town had only just begun its journey towards gentrification, and the neighborhood was, and may well still be, a bit rough around the edges. Down the street from my new home was a ramshackle brick house that epitomized "no pride of ownership," my realtor's diplomatic expression for houses that were complete and utter dumps. It had a large unkempt yard surrounded by a chain link fence, but despite the enclosure, there were two dogs who were constantly chained, just far enough apart so that they could observe the other's misery but not close enough to offer each other any kind of real companionship. One of the dogs was an old hound mix, chained under a lean-to shed with a roof that was falling in. The other was a black cocker spaniel mutt, with matted, curly hair and big brown eyes. I would pass the house often on my runs, and both dogs would bark at me. I am usually nervous about petting chained dogs, but there was something about the black mutt's bark that seem more excited that malicious, and so I took to approaching the fence to pet her, keeping an eye on the front door of the house, always half-expecting some angry resident to yell at me for trespassing. When she saw me coming, the black dog would jump up on the fence and pee with excitement, and it was that fact, that she was so starved for affection that the mere thought of it made her pee, that touched me more than anything.
I had just gone through some pretty major life changes. A few months before I had sold the red Cabriolet convertible that I'd had since I graduated from college and that had taken me across the country to California (and back) several times while I tried to figure out what to do with my life. I bought a bare-bones Toyota pick-up, with no power anything, had a yard sale, packed the rest of my possessions in the back of the pick-up, and drove one last time across the country to Asheville, North Carolina and a new house, new job, new life. I knew no one, but within a few months began dating, rather tumultuously at first, the man who would become my husband. Don was a huge animal lover, and when I told him that every time I saw the little black dog I wanted to take her home with me, he was encouraging. I was wary of the commitment; he thought only of the love. Plus, I was no longer really foot-loose and pet-free, since three cats had adopted me when I moved into the 1920s Dutch Colonial I had bought from California after seeing it only once on a brief visit to the area. And so, with heart in hand, I approached the garbage-strewn stoop of the black dog's house and knocked.
After several minutes, a large African-American woman answered the door, and I could almost see her thinking, "Jesus, what in the world is this little white girl doing at my door?"
"I really like your dog," I blurted out. "I was wondering if I could have her?" There was any number of righteous things I could have said about the conditions in which the dogs were kept, but I was afraid that if I offended her, she would never let me have the dog.
"It's my son's dog," she said. I waited. "But he's gone to college. I'll ask him."
I thanked her and walked home, imagining their conversation. Would he welcome the chance to give a dog he rarely saw a welcoming home, or would he bristle at my presumption and cling to ownership?
A week or so later, I returned. "I just wondered," I began, "if you've had a chance..."
"You can have her," she said brusquely. "You can take the chain, too." She shut the door.
And that was that. I didn't find out the dog's name, her age, whether she'd been spayed... Honestly, I didn't think to ask. I unchained the exuberant little dog and walked her home, casting a regretful look at the other dog still chained under the shed.
At home, it was as if I finally had the chance to live all the animal rescue stories I had devoured as a young girl. I gave her a bath, cut dreds bigger than my fists from her tangled hair, bought her a collar and dog bowl, and named her Dulce, since "sweet" was the word that she brought immediately to mind. That evening was my 30th birthday party, and in the pictures of slightly drunken revelry taken that night she is strewn across my lap and licking my face as if I'd been her human forever. The next day I took her to Bent Creek, a local forest, and she enjoyed what I assumed was her first run in the woods. In the weeks that followed, I walked her twice a day, in the mornings before I went to work and in the evenings after I came home. With Don's help, I put up a picket fence around my small back yard, so she would never have to be tied up again. And as I spent more and more nights away from home, she came with me, joining Don's two dogs in his yard.
More than my move from big city California to small town North Carolina, more than my new home ownership, more even than my new community of friends and of cats, Dulce made me feel changed in some intangible way. This was it-- I was finally settled. Having Dulce made it all real: I lived here, and meant to live here forever. I had a dog. This was my life now.
Looking back, as a new mom of three little children, my mind frames it differently: Dulce made me a mother for the first time. (Yes, there were the cats, but cats are different; it's as if they condescend to let you care for them, rather than that they truly need you.) Dulce needed me with a dependence and a loyalty and a love that took my breath away. She was mine, and I was hers. I will never forgot the moment when that became crystal clear to me. Don and I, newly married, were backpacking with our three dogs: Dulce, an Australian Shepard named Mary, and our new puppy, Soca. Unfortunately, Dulce and Mary had never gotten along. Both females, both jealous, any sign of affection from Don or me for each other or the other dog would set them off into an unstoppable, and often bloody, battle. Neither Don nor I wanted to give up our dog, so we had found a way to manage their fighting by only allowing one or the other to be around us at a time. One day, Dulce would be allowed inside, the next, Mary. "Every dog has its day," we joked.
But backpacking, this routine separation was harder and, although we had brought the tie-outs, we had not yet tied the two of them up. We'd assumed, I suppose, that they'd be too interested in exploring the woods while we set up camp to fight. We were wrong. When the fight was over, Dulce was bleeding profusely from her muzzle. Mary's teeth, it turned out, had completely torn the tender flesh between her nostrils. She must have been in a lot of pain, and there we were, miles from the trail head, never mind a vet. We belatedly tied both dogs up, as we assessed what to do. I think I half-expected Dulce to sulk away, licking her wounds and suffering her pain in private. Instead, she stretched her tie-out to cuddle up to me, climbing into my lap as she lapped the blood that dripped from her torn nose.
It seems natural to me now, that she would seek me out for comfort in her pain. But at the time, I was deeply touched. It was the first time anyone-- human or canine-- had come to me with their physical suffering, as if my very proximity offered her some relief. In that moment, my love for her overwhelmed me. It is a love I recognize easily now: Dulce was my first baby, my first little girl.
And so it went. She was there through everything that was to come. She comforted me when I cried my heart out again and again through the seemingly endless years of trying to conceive a child. Her head rested on my growing belly when it finally happened, and it was her picture that we brought to the hospital as my "focal point" during labor. I was nervous of her jealousy with all my infants, but she graciously conceded her place in my lap, even when "Get down, Dulce. Go on," seemed a constant refrain. She went on fewer walks, got petted and cuddled less as the relentless needs of infants rained down on us. Trips to the woods became a rare treat rather than a weekly occurrence. But through it all she was my sweet girl, her loyalty immutable, her love complete.
When, three months ago, the painful lump on her forehead was diagnosed as cancer, probably of the sinuses, we decided not to subject her to chemotherapy, the only treatment option. Instead, we opted to try to maintain her quality of life as long as possible with antibiotics, pain medicine, and anti-inflammatories. Three months after her diagnosis, we marvelled at her apparent good health. Her appetite was, at times, diminished, but she still played with Soca, still ran around the yard, still climbed into my lap as we sat on the couch.
But then, on Thursday night, she refused to eat. In the morning it was the same, and when I made her scrambled eggs with cheese and tried to coax her, she walked to the door and wanted out. By afternoon, she was lying unnaturally in the sun, her muzzle scrunched against the grass uncomfortably. She wagged her tail when I approached, but staggered when she got up to pee, her urine red with blood, and collapsed by the door when she tried to go inside.
A little over an hour later, she lay in my arms in the parking lot of the vet's office, pushing her muzzle against me, gazing at me with her big brown eyes. Even at the end, in more pain than I like to imagine, she was my sweet, sweet girl, once again taking some comfort, I hope, in my presence. "You're my good dog, Dulce. You're my best girl," I told her again and again. She gazed back at me with those beautiful eyes, adoring as ever, even as the sedative relaxed her almost to sleep and the vet found a vein for the final injection. And then, in an instant, she was gone. Nothing in her face had changed, but her light was out, her soul departed.
"She's gone, " the vet said kindly, listening for her heart, but I knew.
My best, sweet dog, my first little girl-- gone. The vet had used an expression that struck me: her soul mate dog, she had said sympathetically, had died while she was in vet school. Dulce was that for me-- my first true soul mate. She had found her way into my life unexpectedly and loved me with all her enormous heart.
Yesterday, as I ran through the woods on a trail near our home, the wind rustled the fallen leaves. The sound brought Dulce back to me. In my mind's eye I could see her furry black paws disappearing in the leaves, the crinkle and rustle as she sniffed and ran. I sobbed, of course, out of selfishness-- I would never feel her love again, never love, I am afraid, another dog like I love her. But imagining her like that, her spirit running through the woods again, unencumbered by her sick body, her painful flesh... If there is a heaven, I thought, let it be that. Let her spirit run in those woods forever.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
McDonald's and Minivans and Malls (Oh my!)
Yesterday was our first day back from a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend in warm, sunny Florida, and North Carolina welcomed us back with a vengeance: it poured all day long. In the morning, desperate to get four cranky kids out of the house, I headed for the Health Adventure, a kind of children's museum that recently relocated to a mall near our home. (I use the term "children's museum" grudgingly, since when I was a child, even the word museum made me grumpy with tired feet.) I had just bought a year's pass, anticipating lots of cold, wet winter days cooped up inside with four kids, and I wanted to get a good start on getting my money's worth. I pulled into the parking lot already despairing. The rain showed no signs of letting up, and I saw no way of unloading all four kids and shepherding them safely inside without drenching everyone in the process.
"I don't want to go in there!" Clayton piped up from the backseat. He was just being grumpy and oppositional, but for once I agreed. "I don't either," I said, pulling back out onto the road.
Instead, we headed for the mall across town, where there is a covered parking deck and an elevator that deposits you, conveniently, right near the kids' playground in the middle of the food court, not to mention the handicap access button that automatically opens the double doors.
Twenty minutes later all four kids are playing on the kiddie playground. Dee Dee, especially, is in heaven. There's a soft, padded bridge that she climbs up and then slides down again and again, oblivious of the older kids who narrowly miss her as they race by. Clayton is chasing a couple of older girls who seem to have generously incorporated him into their game, although when they put their hands together for a "team work" cheer and tell him to do the same, he starts up with the baby talk he falls back on whenever he's unsure of what to say. Even Sylvia gets in on the action, cruising around on the play structures and even venturing into the little play house on her own. I sit on the bench that encloses the playground and take a deep breath. Dee Dee beams at me from the top of the bridge before careening down onto the padded floor, and I am struck, not for the first time, by how perfect this place is for still-crawling, year-old babies-- not to mention their older brother-- on a rainy Monday.
I must admit it: having three kids has given me an unexpected appreciation of many things that I might once, in my younger, determined-to-be-out-of-the-mainstream days, have scorned or scoffed at. Malls (and their playgrounds), drive-thrus, McDonald's, television, individually packaged cheese crackers, frozen pizzas, minivans, free kids' popcorn at the grocery store.... All of these things I have (with greater or lesser degrees of reluctance) embraced in the past year. I know that it is indeed possible to raise kids without any of those things, as my sister's family is living proof. I have found that I am not so principled.
The minivan was probably the hardest. My first thought when I found out I was pregnant was twins was "Oh no! We'll have to get a bigger car!" Still, I was in denial until just a few weeks before the girls were born. I insisted that the Prius was a five-passenger car, and tried my best to wrestle all three carseats into the back, even after the trained fireman had given up. It was Clayton who finally convinced me it wasn't going to work. He looked at the infant carseat I'd installed next to his, gave it a practice "whumph" with his foot, and announced, "Kick baby!"
I won't go so far as to say I love our minivan, but I'm the first to admit that it gets the job done. Triple stroller and two tricycles? No problem. Fool-hardy, exhausting, unforgettable camping trip to West Virginia? Room to spare. Lumber for the tree fort Don built in the backyard? It can do it all. I just try to avoid looking at the miles-per-gallon readout above the rear view mirror and instead enjoy the fact that even when Clayton is at his most antagonistic, I can get all the kids safely buckled in and leave them for a minute while I put the dogs out or make sure I've packed enough diapers without worrying about anyone getting kicked.
And drive-thrus? I don't think I even have to explain. Soon after the twins were born, when unloading three kids for even the simplest errands was still new to me, I wanted drive-thrus everywhere. I seriously considered pulling up to the pharmacy drive-thru to ask for a gallon of milk and some peanuts. Clayton's a quick study. Now if we pull up to the drive-up ATM at the bank, he'll sometimes say, "I want a blueberry bagel!" or "I want a Munchkin!"
Don't worry, I'm not going to itemize my new-found enjoyment of all the items on my "newly appreciated" list. But I will say that yesterday afternoon, when the rain had still not let up and the afternoon grumpiness had set in full force, I didn't hesitate before taking them all to "Old McDonald's," as Clayton (and now Townes) calls it. I parked next to the door, somehow maneuvered Dee Dee into the Ergo while still in the car (another point for the minivan!), and got everyone inside without even Clayton complaining about getting wet. For Halloween, Clayton's school had given each of the kids a McDonald's coupon for a free ice cream cone. I troop inside with Dee Dee on my back, Sylvia in my arms, and Clayton and Townes still holding hands while they stare at the Happy Meal toys on display and beg intermittently for ice cream. I hand over my free coupon and ask if they can split the free cone into two cups. The cashier looks skeptical but the manager nods; I take my two free ice creams in my one free hand and herd the boys back to the playground.
"Yummy dummy in my tummy!" Clayton mimics his dad while scarfing his ice cream. Townes is actually using a spoon to eat his, albeit upside down. (When I first started taking care of Townes, he ate even ice-cream with his fingers.) Sylvia climbs up the steps to the toddler slide and sits in the covered area at the top, grinning and bobbing her head at every kid who passes until her brother "helps" her go down the slide face first. Even Dee Dee, who has taken an uncharacteristically short nap today, rallies when she sees the slide. The minutes until four o'clock pass surprisingly quickly.
I'm sure we won't be going to McDonald's this often forever. I'd still rather be at an outdoor park than in the middle of a food court, and I am planning to make my own kids suffer the same "no television on school days" rule that my siblings and I survived as children, once we'd outgrown Sesame Street and Mister Rogers. One day--maybe-- I'll even start making my own pizza dough instead of cramming the freezer with whatever frozen pizzas are on sale. But for now I'll freely admit I'm parenting by cracker. I'm not ashamed of the stash I've hidden in the glove compartment of the minivan, ready to placate fussing babies and bribe uncooperative little boys. And the other day, while I pushed the double stroller through the mall and Townes and Clayton sprinted ahead, pointing at everything-- the fountain, a dog wrapped in strands of tinsel, a window display of fake presents-- both yelling "Ook, Mama!" with genuine excitement, well, I don't think I've enjoyed the mall so much since the seventh grade.
"I don't want to go in there!" Clayton piped up from the backseat. He was just being grumpy and oppositional, but for once I agreed. "I don't either," I said, pulling back out onto the road.
Instead, we headed for the mall across town, where there is a covered parking deck and an elevator that deposits you, conveniently, right near the kids' playground in the middle of the food court, not to mention the handicap access button that automatically opens the double doors.
Twenty minutes later all four kids are playing on the kiddie playground. Dee Dee, especially, is in heaven. There's a soft, padded bridge that she climbs up and then slides down again and again, oblivious of the older kids who narrowly miss her as they race by. Clayton is chasing a couple of older girls who seem to have generously incorporated him into their game, although when they put their hands together for a "team work" cheer and tell him to do the same, he starts up with the baby talk he falls back on whenever he's unsure of what to say. Even Sylvia gets in on the action, cruising around on the play structures and even venturing into the little play house on her own. I sit on the bench that encloses the playground and take a deep breath. Dee Dee beams at me from the top of the bridge before careening down onto the padded floor, and I am struck, not for the first time, by how perfect this place is for still-crawling, year-old babies-- not to mention their older brother-- on a rainy Monday.
I must admit it: having three kids has given me an unexpected appreciation of many things that I might once, in my younger, determined-to-be-out-of-the-mainstream days, have scorned or scoffed at. Malls (and their playgrounds), drive-thrus, McDonald's, television, individually packaged cheese crackers, frozen pizzas, minivans, free kids' popcorn at the grocery store.... All of these things I have (with greater or lesser degrees of reluctance) embraced in the past year. I know that it is indeed possible to raise kids without any of those things, as my sister's family is living proof. I have found that I am not so principled.
The minivan was probably the hardest. My first thought when I found out I was pregnant was twins was "Oh no! We'll have to get a bigger car!" Still, I was in denial until just a few weeks before the girls were born. I insisted that the Prius was a five-passenger car, and tried my best to wrestle all three carseats into the back, even after the trained fireman had given up. It was Clayton who finally convinced me it wasn't going to work. He looked at the infant carseat I'd installed next to his, gave it a practice "whumph" with his foot, and announced, "Kick baby!"
I won't go so far as to say I love our minivan, but I'm the first to admit that it gets the job done. Triple stroller and two tricycles? No problem. Fool-hardy, exhausting, unforgettable camping trip to West Virginia? Room to spare. Lumber for the tree fort Don built in the backyard? It can do it all. I just try to avoid looking at the miles-per-gallon readout above the rear view mirror and instead enjoy the fact that even when Clayton is at his most antagonistic, I can get all the kids safely buckled in and leave them for a minute while I put the dogs out or make sure I've packed enough diapers without worrying about anyone getting kicked.
And drive-thrus? I don't think I even have to explain. Soon after the twins were born, when unloading three kids for even the simplest errands was still new to me, I wanted drive-thrus everywhere. I seriously considered pulling up to the pharmacy drive-thru to ask for a gallon of milk and some peanuts. Clayton's a quick study. Now if we pull up to the drive-up ATM at the bank, he'll sometimes say, "I want a blueberry bagel!" or "I want a Munchkin!"
Don't worry, I'm not going to itemize my new-found enjoyment of all the items on my "newly appreciated" list. But I will say that yesterday afternoon, when the rain had still not let up and the afternoon grumpiness had set in full force, I didn't hesitate before taking them all to "Old McDonald's," as Clayton (and now Townes) calls it. I parked next to the door, somehow maneuvered Dee Dee into the Ergo while still in the car (another point for the minivan!), and got everyone inside without even Clayton complaining about getting wet. For Halloween, Clayton's school had given each of the kids a McDonald's coupon for a free ice cream cone. I troop inside with Dee Dee on my back, Sylvia in my arms, and Clayton and Townes still holding hands while they stare at the Happy Meal toys on display and beg intermittently for ice cream. I hand over my free coupon and ask if they can split the free cone into two cups. The cashier looks skeptical but the manager nods; I take my two free ice creams in my one free hand and herd the boys back to the playground.
"Yummy dummy in my tummy!" Clayton mimics his dad while scarfing his ice cream. Townes is actually using a spoon to eat his, albeit upside down. (When I first started taking care of Townes, he ate even ice-cream with his fingers.) Sylvia climbs up the steps to the toddler slide and sits in the covered area at the top, grinning and bobbing her head at every kid who passes until her brother "helps" her go down the slide face first. Even Dee Dee, who has taken an uncharacteristically short nap today, rallies when she sees the slide. The minutes until four o'clock pass surprisingly quickly.
I'm sure we won't be going to McDonald's this often forever. I'd still rather be at an outdoor park than in the middle of a food court, and I am planning to make my own kids suffer the same "no television on school days" rule that my siblings and I survived as children, once we'd outgrown Sesame Street and Mister Rogers. One day--maybe-- I'll even start making my own pizza dough instead of cramming the freezer with whatever frozen pizzas are on sale. But for now I'll freely admit I'm parenting by cracker. I'm not ashamed of the stash I've hidden in the glove compartment of the minivan, ready to placate fussing babies and bribe uncooperative little boys. And the other day, while I pushed the double stroller through the mall and Townes and Clayton sprinted ahead, pointing at everything-- the fountain, a dog wrapped in strands of tinsel, a window display of fake presents-- both yelling "Ook, Mama!" with genuine excitement, well, I don't think I've enjoyed the mall so much since the seventh grade.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Worst Feeling in the World
Don has taught Clayton to play Hide and Seek. Don covers his eyes and counts to ten, and Clayton scurries, giggling, into the kitchen cabinet which Dee Dee has taught him is a fun place to hide. It is the only place he ever hides, even when Don tries to show him some other options.
"Find me!" he yells from inside the cabinet, and Don makes a show of looking for him. It is very, very cute.
On Friday night the two of them were playing after the girls had gone to bed; I had just sat down at the kitchen table with the New Yorker after a long week of childcare. Don hid behind the kids' bathroom door, and when Clayton found him, he shrieked with laughter. I held my breath, and sure enough, seconds later Dee Dee started crying. I should have left her, I wish I'd left her-- she is pretty good at going to sleep herself. But I was worried she would wake Sylvia, who is not so good, so I brought Dee Dee out to the living room. I held her for a while, but she seemed content to crawl and play, so I sat down again, thinking I'd give her a few minutes before trying to put her down again.
Suddenly, she was screaming. When I looked up, she was holding on, with one hand, to the screen that surrounds the wood-burning stove. The screen gets warm, but never hot, and my first thought was that something must have made her mad. She is a determined climber, and is easily infuriated when the world is not immediately accessible to her. But no-- my worst fears about the stove had just been realized. She had somehow managed to touch the stove, although the screen was still in place and she was on the safe side of it. I scooped her up and looked at her hands, and, oh God, there it was-- an awful white stripe down her index finger and another white oval on the fingertip of her middle finger. I rushed her to the kitchen sink and ran cool water from the hose over her hand while she ate a graham cracker with the other. Like that, she was all right-- my brave little girl-- but when we attempted to bandage her hand, she started wailing again.
Do I even need to describe how awful I felt? My baby in pain, from something I could have prevented but could not undo. My worst fears of parenting are medical disasters. Even before I had given birth to my children, I was already dreading the midnight trips to the emergency room, the 105 degree fevers that wouldn't subside, the freak accidents. What if I didn't do the right thing? What if I was paralyzed with fear? My worst childhood memory is when my thirteen-year-old older sister came home early from a weekend at Girl Scout camp. She couldn't pee, and the leaders had encouraged her to drink cup after cup of water, thinking, perhaps, that my sister (of all people!) just had qualms about peeing in the woods. She was in agony, writhing around on her bedroom floor. It turned out she had a three and a half pound ovarian cyst which was blocking her urethra. She is fine--even with only one ovary she quickly conceived her two sons--, and I wonder if the memory of those moments before my parents took her to the hospital haunt her as they haunt me. I was eleven at the time, and my sense of powerlessness in the face of my sister's suffering has never left me.
Two burned fingers are not, I know, a medical emergency. Still, I was tempted to take Dee Dee to the emergency room, mostly out of selfishness. I wanted someone else to be responsible for taking care of her pain. I wanted to follow orders from a professional, not decide myself what we should do. Dee Dee pulled at the bandage with her good hand, ripped at it with her new teeth. "Get this thing off of me!" she screamed. I couldn't tell anymore if her cries were from the pain of the burn, anger at the indignity of the bandage, or exhaustion at being up past her bedtime; probably, it was a combination of all three. We gave her the baby ibuprofen that I'd recently bought for teething pain, but she spit out most of the first dose. When I lay down to nurse her in bed, hoping to coax her to sleep, she opened her mouth against my nipple and howled, writhing away from me in the bed. I tried nursing her in the rocker in her room, but Sylvia stirred and whimpered in her bed when she heard her sister's screams. I paced with her in the bedroom, singing endless rounds of "Twinkle Twinkle," but she would not be consoled. In desperation I tried lying her down in her Pack-n-Play in our room, hoping she would soon cry herself to sleep.
"We'll give her ten minutes," Don said, but after five, or three, I went back in. She had pulled the bandage most of the way off her hand. Only the tape was still attached. I knew the burn probably hurt more exposed to the air, but I was almost relieved to have it off, since it clearly pissed her off so much. I tried the rocker again, called for Don to take Sylvia when she woke. I rocked, patted, sang, nursed, rocked, patted, sang, nursed... After a while, the screaming stopped, although her little body still jolted rhythmically in my arms with silent, gasping sobs. When she had finally quieted, I rocked her still, holding her close.
Again, words won't really do the feeling justice. There is no worse feeling than not having protected my babies from pain, unless it is not being able to console them. With Dee Dee finally asleep in my arms, I felt overcome with relief, tenderness, concern. I wanted to hold her forever, wanted there never to be a time when she would not fit so securely in my arms, would not find such comfort in my breast, my presence, my love.
I finally lay her down. She stirred but didn't wake, and I went out to find Don playing with Sylvia on the couch. My breasts felt deflated and empty, but I took Sylvia to bed to nurse anyway, taking comfort in the ease with which I could comfort her, the familiar feel of her body, pain-free, against mine.
In the middle of the night, Sylvia woke again, and although we have been trying, a little, to limit the number of night nursings, that night I felt only tenderness when I brought her to my breast. This time, when the comfort I can offer is so complete, is fleeting, and that night it felt far more precious than a night of uninterrupted sleep.
Usually I take Sylvia back to her crib once she has nursed. We both sleep better, and longer, when in our own beds. But over an hour had passed when I woke again to find her still beside me, her head lodged securely in my armpit, her body pressed against mine. She sighed when I lifted her and carried her back to bed, only stirring slightly when I lay her in her crib. Dee Dee still slept peacefully, bottom in the air; she hadn't moved, it seemed, since I lay her down, and I felt a surge of love for both my sleeping little girls.
I tiptoed past Clayton's room, and it seemed to me that my love for my children emanated from me, that it was a physical presence that permeated the very air they breathed. In the living room, my old dog Dulce lay stretched out on the bed near our door. She didn't stir as I passed, and I felt relief that in sleep she, too, was safe from the relentless pain of the lump on her head.
I climbed back in bed, the sheets still warm, and curled up against Don. I would have done anything to protect Dee Dee from that suffering, to have spent a normal evening in front of the fire, watching the West Wing with Don and eating ice cream. But Dee Dee would be okay, I knew, and, in the quiet of the night, I felt content, grateful for how safe they all were in sleep, blessed by how my immense love for them all could fill the night.
"Find me!" he yells from inside the cabinet, and Don makes a show of looking for him. It is very, very cute.
On Friday night the two of them were playing after the girls had gone to bed; I had just sat down at the kitchen table with the New Yorker after a long week of childcare. Don hid behind the kids' bathroom door, and when Clayton found him, he shrieked with laughter. I held my breath, and sure enough, seconds later Dee Dee started crying. I should have left her, I wish I'd left her-- she is pretty good at going to sleep herself. But I was worried she would wake Sylvia, who is not so good, so I brought Dee Dee out to the living room. I held her for a while, but she seemed content to crawl and play, so I sat down again, thinking I'd give her a few minutes before trying to put her down again.
Suddenly, she was screaming. When I looked up, she was holding on, with one hand, to the screen that surrounds the wood-burning stove. The screen gets warm, but never hot, and my first thought was that something must have made her mad. She is a determined climber, and is easily infuriated when the world is not immediately accessible to her. But no-- my worst fears about the stove had just been realized. She had somehow managed to touch the stove, although the screen was still in place and she was on the safe side of it. I scooped her up and looked at her hands, and, oh God, there it was-- an awful white stripe down her index finger and another white oval on the fingertip of her middle finger. I rushed her to the kitchen sink and ran cool water from the hose over her hand while she ate a graham cracker with the other. Like that, she was all right-- my brave little girl-- but when we attempted to bandage her hand, she started wailing again.
Do I even need to describe how awful I felt? My baby in pain, from something I could have prevented but could not undo. My worst fears of parenting are medical disasters. Even before I had given birth to my children, I was already dreading the midnight trips to the emergency room, the 105 degree fevers that wouldn't subside, the freak accidents. What if I didn't do the right thing? What if I was paralyzed with fear? My worst childhood memory is when my thirteen-year-old older sister came home early from a weekend at Girl Scout camp. She couldn't pee, and the leaders had encouraged her to drink cup after cup of water, thinking, perhaps, that my sister (of all people!) just had qualms about peeing in the woods. She was in agony, writhing around on her bedroom floor. It turned out she had a three and a half pound ovarian cyst which was blocking her urethra. She is fine--even with only one ovary she quickly conceived her two sons--, and I wonder if the memory of those moments before my parents took her to the hospital haunt her as they haunt me. I was eleven at the time, and my sense of powerlessness in the face of my sister's suffering has never left me.
Two burned fingers are not, I know, a medical emergency. Still, I was tempted to take Dee Dee to the emergency room, mostly out of selfishness. I wanted someone else to be responsible for taking care of her pain. I wanted to follow orders from a professional, not decide myself what we should do. Dee Dee pulled at the bandage with her good hand, ripped at it with her new teeth. "Get this thing off of me!" she screamed. I couldn't tell anymore if her cries were from the pain of the burn, anger at the indignity of the bandage, or exhaustion at being up past her bedtime; probably, it was a combination of all three. We gave her the baby ibuprofen that I'd recently bought for teething pain, but she spit out most of the first dose. When I lay down to nurse her in bed, hoping to coax her to sleep, she opened her mouth against my nipple and howled, writhing away from me in the bed. I tried nursing her in the rocker in her room, but Sylvia stirred and whimpered in her bed when she heard her sister's screams. I paced with her in the bedroom, singing endless rounds of "Twinkle Twinkle," but she would not be consoled. In desperation I tried lying her down in her Pack-n-Play in our room, hoping she would soon cry herself to sleep.
"We'll give her ten minutes," Don said, but after five, or three, I went back in. She had pulled the bandage most of the way off her hand. Only the tape was still attached. I knew the burn probably hurt more exposed to the air, but I was almost relieved to have it off, since it clearly pissed her off so much. I tried the rocker again, called for Don to take Sylvia when she woke. I rocked, patted, sang, nursed, rocked, patted, sang, nursed... After a while, the screaming stopped, although her little body still jolted rhythmically in my arms with silent, gasping sobs. When she had finally quieted, I rocked her still, holding her close.
Again, words won't really do the feeling justice. There is no worse feeling than not having protected my babies from pain, unless it is not being able to console them. With Dee Dee finally asleep in my arms, I felt overcome with relief, tenderness, concern. I wanted to hold her forever, wanted there never to be a time when she would not fit so securely in my arms, would not find such comfort in my breast, my presence, my love.
I finally lay her down. She stirred but didn't wake, and I went out to find Don playing with Sylvia on the couch. My breasts felt deflated and empty, but I took Sylvia to bed to nurse anyway, taking comfort in the ease with which I could comfort her, the familiar feel of her body, pain-free, against mine.
In the middle of the night, Sylvia woke again, and although we have been trying, a little, to limit the number of night nursings, that night I felt only tenderness when I brought her to my breast. This time, when the comfort I can offer is so complete, is fleeting, and that night it felt far more precious than a night of uninterrupted sleep.
Usually I take Sylvia back to her crib once she has nursed. We both sleep better, and longer, when in our own beds. But over an hour had passed when I woke again to find her still beside me, her head lodged securely in my armpit, her body pressed against mine. She sighed when I lifted her and carried her back to bed, only stirring slightly when I lay her in her crib. Dee Dee still slept peacefully, bottom in the air; she hadn't moved, it seemed, since I lay her down, and I felt a surge of love for both my sleeping little girls.
I tiptoed past Clayton's room, and it seemed to me that my love for my children emanated from me, that it was a physical presence that permeated the very air they breathed. In the living room, my old dog Dulce lay stretched out on the bed near our door. She didn't stir as I passed, and I felt relief that in sleep she, too, was safe from the relentless pain of the lump on her head.
I climbed back in bed, the sheets still warm, and curled up against Don. I would have done anything to protect Dee Dee from that suffering, to have spent a normal evening in front of the fire, watching the West Wing with Don and eating ice cream. But Dee Dee would be okay, I knew, and, in the quiet of the night, I felt content, grateful for how safe they all were in sleep, blessed by how my immense love for them all could fill the night.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
The Really Hard Stuff
I'm realizing that it's easy for me to write about the physical and logistical challenges of taking care of three (plus) kids. The good times, the shining moments-- those are easy, too. It's the truly hard stuff that is much more difficult to get down. Is it because I'm afraid of seeming weak? Is it because, having decided to do this, I feel determined, or like I should be determined, to only see the best of it?
After a recent blog post, I was criticized for glorifying my own heroics (I paraphrase). The post was, I thought, self-deprecating-- I had just finished Tina Fey's Bossypants and have the annoying habit of adopting the tone of whatever author I'm reading-- and at first I was amazed, hurt, and a little angry that I could be so misread. Now I've started to wonder. Maybe by writing about how I muscle through the tough moments I do risk inadvertently portraying myself as some kind of "super mama." I admit that there are some strengths I bring to this work, primarily a certain amount of pure physical strength and endurance, combined with a determination to try to do things well. But mostly I feel like I just do what I have to. I have three little kids and a temperament that won't let me hide out at home, which wouldn't make the challenges any less difficult, I'm sure, but would make them more private.
There are challenges, though, that I don't feel like I'm surmounting all that gracefully, and they're much more complicated than making it to (and through) story time without anyone breaking down. Mostly, they leave me feeling empty and inadequate and worried, not "amazing" at all. What would it be like to write those things down? I want to know, so here goes.
Still, my general malaise this week hasn't really been because of hair pulling, struggles over quiet time, or the fact that Dee Dee has only to look at me--and realize I'm not holding her-- to burst into tears. It's that underlying everything is the question, "What am I doing?" I feel so bored. I unload the dishwasher, round up the laundry, clean up the kitchen, tidy up the toys, make quesadillas and frozen peas... all ad infinitum. There's not much satisfaction because it doesn't stay done. This week I made up little jobs that would give me some sense of accomplishment: scrubbing the microwave, cleaning the high chair that the girls insist on climbing out of so that I can pass it along without too much embarrassment. Little errands, like buying Clayton some pants at Goodwill, at least make me feel like I've done something. I know that all this is part and parcel of my decision to stay home. I even know that one reason I made this decision was so that weekends and evenings wouldn't be consumed by all the menial chores that we couldn't get to during the work week. And that is true, to a degree-- I do manage to make dinner most days before Don gets home--, but sometimes it just seems that there wouldn't be so much housework if we weren't all home so damn much.
On Thursday I pretty much went all day without speaking to another adult. I made some small talk when I bought eggs at the local produce stand and asked Clayton's teacher, "Did he have a good day?" but that was it. The girls were in their seats eating spinach and scrambled eggs when I saw my neighbor out on the street with her kids. It was all I could do not to grab them out of their seats, bundle them up, find their shoes, and lug them both down the hill just for a few moments of conversation with a friend. By four-thirty I was already counting the minutes until Don came home. When he called at four-forty-five to say he'd be home closer to six instead of five thirty-- called just like I had asked him to-- it almost broke my heart. I'm irritable when he gets home-- I'm hungry, bored, lonely-- and that only makes it worse. I'm desperate for connection; he's just come home from a long day to a wife who's pissy and resentful over twenty-five measly minutes. I see him rough-housing with a giggling Clayton and wonder if I've laughed like that with my children today. I think of all those moms who say they're better parents for not staying home, and I have a moment of self-doubt. Would Don and I be better if we were both working, both living the same kind of challenges? Would I appreciate my children more? Would I be happier?
Those moments of doubt pass, the clouds lift, my mood shifts. There are a hundred reasons everyday that I'm glad to be doing this. Sometimes when one of his sisters is crying, Clayton will say, "It's okay, Dee Dee. Mama's right here," and I think my heart's going to overflow with all my blessings. I'm glad that mine are the legs that the girls pull up on countless times a day, no matter how difficult it makes it to get anything done. I'm glad I'm there to see my contemplative Sylvia try to put the lids on the empty bubble bottles, to spot my adventurous Dee Dee as she climbs the stairs. And I'm glad to be sharing it all with Clayton. "Ook, Mama!" he says often. "She's standing up! She's doing it!"
This week we went to Clayton's first Play-n-Learn, a preschool class for kids who aren't enrolled in preschool. Even though it is all I can do to keep the girls at bay while helping Clayton with his crafts and activities, watching him find his place in the circle to sing "The Bear Went Over the Mountain" and watch the puppet show, seeing him struggling with the finger puppets... These are the moments I need to hang onto when I'm unloading the dishwasher yet again. For one of the activities, the kids in Clayton's class are supposed to sort a baggie of toy animals onto a picture of either a forest or a farm. Clayton gets every one right, and I can feel myself beaming with pride, even though no one is watching but me. Then he pulls the eagle out of the bag. "Does the eagle live in the forest or on the farm?" I prompt. He holds the eagle in the air above both pictures. At first I think he's just hesitating, not sure, and then I get it. "That's right!" I laugh, and I want to pull him to me and never let go.
The girls are figuring out the world. When Dee Dee got a hold of my cell phone the other day, she held it up next to her head. When Sylvia plays with her shoes, she holds them down next to her feet, like she knows what to do with them. I told Don about it while I was brushing my teeth. "You notice all those little things about them," Don said, "since you're with them so much." I don't think he could have said a kinder thing if he'd meant to.
I recently had a conversation with another mom whom I know only peripherally and hadn't seen in some time. We marvelled at how big each other's children were, and I remarked that other people's kids seem to grow up even faster than one's own. "Yes," she agreed, and added, far more insightfully,"and it always seems easier for other people." I think of how people who see me with my kids will tell me "You're amazing," or "You're my inspiration." Of course that's nice to hear, but it can also make me feel a little fake, like I'm wearing a "Super Mama" costume for everyone to see when inside I'm the same jumble of conflicting emotions, insecurities, and exhaustion as any other mom. There are highs, and there are lows, and there are acres of mind-numbing boredom in between. It can be amazing or awful, often in the course of several minutes. Writing about it, I don't want to glorify it (or, God forbid, myself) and I certainly don't mean to complain. But the hard stuff matters, too, and I want to be real. I want to try to tell the truth.
After a recent blog post, I was criticized for glorifying my own heroics (I paraphrase). The post was, I thought, self-deprecating-- I had just finished Tina Fey's Bossypants and have the annoying habit of adopting the tone of whatever author I'm reading-- and at first I was amazed, hurt, and a little angry that I could be so misread. Now I've started to wonder. Maybe by writing about how I muscle through the tough moments I do risk inadvertently portraying myself as some kind of "super mama." I admit that there are some strengths I bring to this work, primarily a certain amount of pure physical strength and endurance, combined with a determination to try to do things well. But mostly I feel like I just do what I have to. I have three little kids and a temperament that won't let me hide out at home, which wouldn't make the challenges any less difficult, I'm sure, but would make them more private.
There are challenges, though, that I don't feel like I'm surmounting all that gracefully, and they're much more complicated than making it to (and through) story time without anyone breaking down. Mostly, they leave me feeling empty and inadequate and worried, not "amazing" at all. What would it be like to write those things down? I want to know, so here goes.
* * *
Sylvia loves to pull hair. It was kind of cute when she was smaller and immobile. Clayton would put his head in her lap and she'd grab his hair in her little hands and he'd pull away easily, smiling at his infant sister. Now it's just annoying. Dee Dee will be playing happily or lying on her back screaming and Sylvia will crawl up to her, grab a couple of fistfuls of hair, and laugh. "No, Sylvia!" I say countless times a day, and "Uh, Sylvia, you're such a pain!" I don't worry that I'm scarring her for life; she doesn't understand me yet. But Clayton does. Yesterday he said," I don't like Sylvia!" This could be just three-year old-blabber--there is absolutely no filter between his brain and his mouth-- but I wonder. Clayton seems to have a special bond with Dee Dee; do I reinforce that by vocalizing my irritation with his other sister? I expect him to get annoyed by the girls--especially now, when they're into absolutely everything-- but I want him to get annoyed with them uniformly. I certainly don't want any preference he might have to be fueled by me making my frustrations known. * * *
I didn't expect to write that. I think that was kind of a baby step in the direction of airing the things I really worry about, the things that get me down. Another (bigger?) baby step is my continual angst about Clayton's "quiet time." He hasn't actually slept during "quiet time" for months, but I insist he takes it anyway. Partly because it seems like a good idea for him, mostly because I want the momentary break it gives me. The only leverage I have to coerce him into it is his videos. He knows the "rules:" no quiet time in his bed, no videos. But two days this week he was adamant in his refusal, so "quiet" time consisted of twenty minutes of book reading and negotiation followed by thirty minutes of screaming and door banging. It was restful for neither of us--my stomach was clenched the entire time, waiting for his theatrics to wake Sylvia asleep a few feet away-- and I wondered, for the umpteenth time, what am I doing this for? Sometimes it feels like insisting on a quiet time is more stressful than doing without those thirty minutes sans Clay would be, since I rarely get that time to myself, anyway. Often the worse days are school days, when he clearly needs the rest the most. He begs to watch his videos, tells me he slept at school, he slept in the car, he slept on the ceiling... I can see how desperate he is to turn his brain off for a while, so that even the prospect of being in his bed, reading or playing quietly, is too much for him to handle. So, instead of a peaceful hour of Bugs Bunny or Scooby Doo when I may get a minute to check my email or make dinner, I get a hysterical child throwing himself against his door, and me sick of myself for how, even after three years, figuring out naps or the lack of them can wind me up, piss me off, and stress me out so much. Still, my general malaise this week hasn't really been because of hair pulling, struggles over quiet time, or the fact that Dee Dee has only to look at me--and realize I'm not holding her-- to burst into tears. It's that underlying everything is the question, "What am I doing?" I feel so bored. I unload the dishwasher, round up the laundry, clean up the kitchen, tidy up the toys, make quesadillas and frozen peas... all ad infinitum. There's not much satisfaction because it doesn't stay done. This week I made up little jobs that would give me some sense of accomplishment: scrubbing the microwave, cleaning the high chair that the girls insist on climbing out of so that I can pass it along without too much embarrassment. Little errands, like buying Clayton some pants at Goodwill, at least make me feel like I've done something. I know that all this is part and parcel of my decision to stay home. I even know that one reason I made this decision was so that weekends and evenings wouldn't be consumed by all the menial chores that we couldn't get to during the work week. And that is true, to a degree-- I do manage to make dinner most days before Don gets home--, but sometimes it just seems that there wouldn't be so much housework if we weren't all home so damn much.
On Thursday I pretty much went all day without speaking to another adult. I made some small talk when I bought eggs at the local produce stand and asked Clayton's teacher, "Did he have a good day?" but that was it. The girls were in their seats eating spinach and scrambled eggs when I saw my neighbor out on the street with her kids. It was all I could do not to grab them out of their seats, bundle them up, find their shoes, and lug them both down the hill just for a few moments of conversation with a friend. By four-thirty I was already counting the minutes until Don came home. When he called at four-forty-five to say he'd be home closer to six instead of five thirty-- called just like I had asked him to-- it almost broke my heart. I'm irritable when he gets home-- I'm hungry, bored, lonely-- and that only makes it worse. I'm desperate for connection; he's just come home from a long day to a wife who's pissy and resentful over twenty-five measly minutes. I see him rough-housing with a giggling Clayton and wonder if I've laughed like that with my children today. I think of all those moms who say they're better parents for not staying home, and I have a moment of self-doubt. Would Don and I be better if we were both working, both living the same kind of challenges? Would I appreciate my children more? Would I be happier?
Those moments of doubt pass, the clouds lift, my mood shifts. There are a hundred reasons everyday that I'm glad to be doing this. Sometimes when one of his sisters is crying, Clayton will say, "It's okay, Dee Dee. Mama's right here," and I think my heart's going to overflow with all my blessings. I'm glad that mine are the legs that the girls pull up on countless times a day, no matter how difficult it makes it to get anything done. I'm glad I'm there to see my contemplative Sylvia try to put the lids on the empty bubble bottles, to spot my adventurous Dee Dee as she climbs the stairs. And I'm glad to be sharing it all with Clayton. "Ook, Mama!" he says often. "She's standing up! She's doing it!"
This week we went to Clayton's first Play-n-Learn, a preschool class for kids who aren't enrolled in preschool. Even though it is all I can do to keep the girls at bay while helping Clayton with his crafts and activities, watching him find his place in the circle to sing "The Bear Went Over the Mountain" and watch the puppet show, seeing him struggling with the finger puppets... These are the moments I need to hang onto when I'm unloading the dishwasher yet again. For one of the activities, the kids in Clayton's class are supposed to sort a baggie of toy animals onto a picture of either a forest or a farm. Clayton gets every one right, and I can feel myself beaming with pride, even though no one is watching but me. Then he pulls the eagle out of the bag. "Does the eagle live in the forest or on the farm?" I prompt. He holds the eagle in the air above both pictures. At first I think he's just hesitating, not sure, and then I get it. "That's right!" I laugh, and I want to pull him to me and never let go.
The girls are figuring out the world. When Dee Dee got a hold of my cell phone the other day, she held it up next to her head. When Sylvia plays with her shoes, she holds them down next to her feet, like she knows what to do with them. I told Don about it while I was brushing my teeth. "You notice all those little things about them," Don said, "since you're with them so much." I don't think he could have said a kinder thing if he'd meant to.
I recently had a conversation with another mom whom I know only peripherally and hadn't seen in some time. We marvelled at how big each other's children were, and I remarked that other people's kids seem to grow up even faster than one's own. "Yes," she agreed, and added, far more insightfully,"and it always seems easier for other people." I think of how people who see me with my kids will tell me "You're amazing," or "You're my inspiration." Of course that's nice to hear, but it can also make me feel a little fake, like I'm wearing a "Super Mama" costume for everyone to see when inside I'm the same jumble of conflicting emotions, insecurities, and exhaustion as any other mom. There are highs, and there are lows, and there are acres of mind-numbing boredom in between. It can be amazing or awful, often in the course of several minutes. Writing about it, I don't want to glorify it (or, God forbid, myself) and I certainly don't mean to complain. But the hard stuff matters, too, and I want to be real. I want to try to tell the truth.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Reaching Out
A friend of mine who is pregnant recently remarked to me that colleagues who had never spoken a word to her before now stop her to chat in the halls. "I understand," she said. "Creating another human being is miraculous. And now I'm 'part of the club.' But isn't there some other common ground?" I understood what she meant, remembered how, when I was pregnant, every conversation seemed to begin or end with "How are you feeling?" or "When are you due?" There does seem to be something about the miracle of pregnancy and childbirth that allows people to reach out to total strangers (sometimes too literally-- Can I touch your belly?) in a way that they ordinarily wouldn't.
I never hear "How are you feeling?" now, and at times I sort of miss those days of pregnancy, before all the concern and questions shifted to the babies. I admire women so much who eschew the medicalization of childbirth and have their babies at home, but to tell the truth, I kind of liked the hospital. Sure, they wake you up every couple of hours to check your vitals unnecessarily, but it is also the culmination of concern for you, the mom. I wanted someone to bring me meals on a tray and take away the dishes afterwards. I wanted the attention, however medicalized, of the midwives’ post-partum visits, the lactation specialists, the nurses, the pediatricians. I wanted someone to take away my babies for whatever test or shot and bring them back to me cozily swaddled and fast asleep.
Now "How are you feeling?" has been thoroughly replaced by "You really have your hands full!" That statement is so ubiquitous that you’d think by now, after over a year of hearing it on virtually every outing, I’d be sick of it. (The girls are only eleven months, but even before they were born, I was often informed "You’re really going to have your hands full!" by total strangers, as if I wasn't scared enough.) And although I am sometimes bored by the lack of originality of the comment, I never actually tire of hearing it. Partly, I think that’s because I appreciate the acknowledgement that I’m doing something that’s difficult and that others recognize that fact. When I was running my one and only marathon, I certainly never tired of hearing the cheers of complete strangers, although "Way to go!" and "You’re doing great!" are hardly any less cliche. Mostly, though, I feel grateful for the way in which my handful of kids allows people to reach out, to breach the space that separates us. Without them, every passing raises questions: make eye contact or not? say hi or not? respond to "How’s it going?" or just accept it as a rhetorical greeting? Too often it seems that we live in a society in which even a simple greeting can seem an invasion of someone’s privacy.
There used to be an assistant principal at the school where I worked who would walk right by a teacher in the halls without any kind of greeting or acknowledgement. Since my state of mind around my superiors seems to be perpetually stuck in the third grade, I felt constantly on edge around her, worrying that I was in trouble. On the other hand, my best friend in high school prided herself on unfailingly greeting passersby, whenever and wherever. She'd be neck and neck with a competitor in a cross country race and would still call out a cheerful "Hi!" if a recreational jogger happened to be passing by. Clearly, context is everything. What works in Piedmont, Alabama at a McDonalds at five in the morning wouldn't pass muster, I'm sure, on a New York City sidewalk. But still, in general, our culture's norms are pretty nebulous. I'd love to read the sample conversation in the first chapter of an "American English as a Foreign Language" textbook.
Student A: Hey.
Student B: How's it going?
Student A: (No response needed. Discontinue eye contact and keep walking.)
So, even though I wonder why "You've really got your hands full!" became the stock phrase that everyone uses, I'll take it. I'll take the smiles, the looks of wonder, the tacit encouragement. And I'll keep assuming that "You've really got your hands full" really means "Wow! I'm impressed!" and not "Better you than me!"
I never hear "How are you feeling?" now, and at times I sort of miss those days of pregnancy, before all the concern and questions shifted to the babies. I admire women so much who eschew the medicalization of childbirth and have their babies at home, but to tell the truth, I kind of liked the hospital. Sure, they wake you up every couple of hours to check your vitals unnecessarily, but it is also the culmination of concern for you, the mom. I wanted someone to bring me meals on a tray and take away the dishes afterwards. I wanted the attention, however medicalized, of the midwives’ post-partum visits, the lactation specialists, the nurses, the pediatricians. I wanted someone to take away my babies for whatever test or shot and bring them back to me cozily swaddled and fast asleep.
Now "How are you feeling?" has been thoroughly replaced by "You really have your hands full!" That statement is so ubiquitous that you’d think by now, after over a year of hearing it on virtually every outing, I’d be sick of it. (The girls are only eleven months, but even before they were born, I was often informed "You’re really going to have your hands full!" by total strangers, as if I wasn't scared enough.) And although I am sometimes bored by the lack of originality of the comment, I never actually tire of hearing it. Partly, I think that’s because I appreciate the acknowledgement that I’m doing something that’s difficult and that others recognize that fact. When I was running my one and only marathon, I certainly never tired of hearing the cheers of complete strangers, although "Way to go!" and "You’re doing great!" are hardly any less cliche. Mostly, though, I feel grateful for the way in which my handful of kids allows people to reach out, to breach the space that separates us. Without them, every passing raises questions: make eye contact or not? say hi or not? respond to "How’s it going?" or just accept it as a rhetorical greeting? Too often it seems that we live in a society in which even a simple greeting can seem an invasion of someone’s privacy.
There used to be an assistant principal at the school where I worked who would walk right by a teacher in the halls without any kind of greeting or acknowledgement. Since my state of mind around my superiors seems to be perpetually stuck in the third grade, I felt constantly on edge around her, worrying that I was in trouble. On the other hand, my best friend in high school prided herself on unfailingly greeting passersby, whenever and wherever. She'd be neck and neck with a competitor in a cross country race and would still call out a cheerful "Hi!" if a recreational jogger happened to be passing by. Clearly, context is everything. What works in Piedmont, Alabama at a McDonalds at five in the morning wouldn't pass muster, I'm sure, on a New York City sidewalk. But still, in general, our culture's norms are pretty nebulous. I'd love to read the sample conversation in the first chapter of an "American English as a Foreign Language" textbook.
Student A: Hey.
Student B: How's it going?
Student A: (No response needed. Discontinue eye contact and keep walking.)
So, even though I wonder why "You've really got your hands full!" became the stock phrase that everyone uses, I'll take it. I'll take the smiles, the looks of wonder, the tacit encouragement. And I'll keep assuming that "You've really got your hands full" really means "Wow! I'm impressed!" and not "Better you than me!"
Thursday, October 20, 2011
20 Alternatives to "You've Got Your Hands Full!" or 20 Things I Wish I Heard on a Daily Basis
"What a beautiful family!"
"You, go, girl!"
"Oh, come on! How come you left the dog at home?"
"Let me buy you a cup of coffee!"
"Good for you for getting out!"
"I am (know) a great babysitter. Let me give you my (her/his) number!"
"Wow! I'm impressed!"
"You must feel so blessed!
"You must be tired."
"That looks like a lot of fun."
"It's a beautiful day, isn't it!"
"I hope that's easier than it looks!"
"They're so cute!"
"You look fantastic!"
"Can I help you at all?"
"I hope their dad appreciates you!"
"The hours go slow, but the years go fast!"
"So what do you do in your free time?"
"I have/had ___________________ and I thought that was a challenge!"
"I/My _______________ had twins. It got easier."
"You, go, girl!"
"Oh, come on! How come you left the dog at home?"
"Let me buy you a cup of coffee!"
"Good for you for getting out!"
"I am (know) a great babysitter. Let me give you my (her/his) number!"
"Wow! I'm impressed!"
"You must feel so blessed!
"You must be tired."
"That looks like a lot of fun."
"It's a beautiful day, isn't it!"
"I hope that's easier than it looks!"
"They're so cute!"
"You look fantastic!"
"Can I help you at all?"
"I hope their dad appreciates you!"
"The hours go slow, but the years go fast!"
"So what do you do in your free time?"
"I have/had ___________________ and I thought that was a challenge!"
"I/My _______________ had twins. It got easier."
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Snapshots
The boys are happily playing in the sandbox. Sylvia and Dee Dee are, miraculously, both napping. I go to the garage to retrieve the sand toys we took to the lake the other day. Less than a minute later I hear Townes crying on the patio. The screen door to the basement is closed, the sandbox empty. Clayton must have just gone inside, shutting Townes out. (Not on purpose, I hope? There is nothing like a closed door for making Townes cry, which Clayton well knows.) I open the door for Townes and hear Sylvia screaming. Upstairs, Clayton is standing in a puddle of pee outside her bedroom, banging on the door. I don't know whether to be angry or empathetic. Was he looking for help to use the potty or purposely making the other kids cry? I'm guessing the later, but who knows? No time to dwell on it anyway. Do I comfort the crying baby or clean up the pee seeping between the floorboards? The pee wins out. Poor Sylvie.
***
Townes says often, "Mama at work!"
Clayton wonders, Does his mama work?
"I take care of kids," I tell him again.
"You take care of me, Sylvia, Dee Dee, Townes. Do you take care of Mama?"
"I try," I tell him, laughing. "I try." Then I make a cup of tea.
***
Sylvia has been fussing all morning. She won't sleep, but won't let me put her down, either. I've tried nursing her several times, hoping she'll calm enough to go to sleep, and she's finally lying quietly. Maybe this time? I'm about to sneak out when Clayton barges through the door: "Mama! Can I come in here with you guys?" Sylvia is immediately wide awake. Is this my punishment for having gloated over how easily she once napped?
***
Some chaos or frustration I can't remember. I'm standing in the kitchen, feeling sorry for myself. I'm sick of washing trays, sick of stinky diapers, sick of pushing swings, sick of negotiating naps, sick of telling stories, sick of carseats, tantrums, parks. Sick of making it look easy.
"I can't do this!" I say to myself.
Clayton looks over. "Yes, you can Mama! You can do it!"
***
Could two babies be more different? Dee Dee eats her food by the fistfuls, her tray cleared before Sylvia has finished her first careful survey, bringing the choicest morsels delicately to her mouth between thumb and finger. Dee Dee will sometimes sleep twelve, thirteen hours at a stretch; Sylvia has yet to sleep through the night and is ready for the day at quarter 'til six. Dee Dee loves the bath; Sylvia stands up on the side of the tub, sucks on a washcloth, and complains. Sylvia poops neatly on the potty twice a day; Dee Dee messes her diaper enthusiastically as often as she can. To swing makes Dee Dee laugh and kick; Sylvia is content to sit and watch as if contemplating the physics, my mother says. Dee Dee often cries when strangers get too close; Sylvia flirts and cuddles right up. But right now as they both unload the recycling bin all over the porch and play the drums on the barbecue grill and mimic each other's noises and look over at me with identical sheepishness and pride, they do not seem so different after all.
* * *
4:40 in a motel room in Piedmont, Alabama, where we've come to celebrate Don's parents' sixtieth anniversary. It doesn't matter that it's 5:40 our time, pretty par for the course for Sylvia waking. It's still darn early, pitch black outside, the stars still out and no sign of dawn. We didn't get everyone to sleep until just before midnight (or, God help us, one o'clock our time) and my nipples feel raw and my breasts deflated from trying endlessly-- or so it felt-- to nurse the girls to sleep after their brother got them pretty well jazzed up with his late night "happy jollies" (as my brother-in-law calls the after bed-time, over-tired, frenzied energy surge). Now said brother is lying, amazingly still asleep, on the floor between the two queen beds. He fell out of bed in the middle of the night but didn't wake up, so I just left him where he lay. Now I'm anxious to get the girls quiet. Two weeks ago when we went camping, an over-tired Clayton meant for a very rough next day and I'd hate for Clay's grumpiness to mar Don's parents' celebration. So I scoop up the girls-- Sylvia has managed to wake Dee Dee, who usually sleeps until after seven-- and go out to the car. I've pulled on some shorts but I'm still in my pyjama top-- I'm pretty sure I've got a sweatshirt in the car. The girls are still in their nighttime diapers, but, darn it, the diaper bag's back in the room! I don't dare go back inside for fear of waking Clayton. Still, they've only had them on for a few hours, I tell myself.
There's not much happening in Piedmont, Alabama at five on a Saturday morning. We creep aimlessly down the deserted highway and pass a McDonalds. It's open! The girls stuff themselves on pancakes while I sip coffee. Afterwards, they play happily with the butter patty packages and I start a letter to my sister on an old notepad I find in the car. This is not the selflessness Buddha talks of; I'm not on my way to nirvana. But still, dragging myself out of bed and to McDonalds at five o'clock in the morning after fewer than five not-very-restful hours sleep-- it's a lesson in something. The girls make everyone smile-- this McDonalds is happening-- and soon all the regulars are talking about twins over their McMuffins and 39 cent senior coffees. It may not be nirvana, but it's a moment I'll remember, a little piece of unexpected joy. We could be a McDonalds' commercial. Can you forgive me? I really am lovin' it.
* * *
We're headed to the library. I'm carrying Sylvia down the stairs to the garage, Townes and Clayton on my heels. Dee Dee is in the living room, waiting her turn, the gate closed at the top of the stairs. I put Sylvia in the car and hear Clayton yelling, Dee Dee crying. I rush back past Townes and see Dee Dee and Clayton at the top of the stairs. Clayton has somehow managed to push the gate open, and Dee Dee, ever alert for an opportunity, is determined to head down, too. She's crying because Clayton has hold of her by the back of the shirt, grimacing with the effort to hold her back, yelling, "No, Dee Dee, no!"
***
We're at the park-- Clayton has been swinging for half an hour. Time to leave for storytime if we're going to make it. Plus, there's a little girl who wants the swing. Two more minutes, I tell him, and then, "Okay, time to go and let the little girl have a turn."
"I don't want to go!"
He won't be persuaded to give up the swing willingly, so I end up wrestling him out of it. That's not an easy task even when he's cooperating, since he's really too big for the baby swing he insists on using and his feet always get stuck. Now he's hanging on for dear life with both hands and feet. Still, I'm determined not to let him get his way, and finally, he's out. His screams are deafening, and the girl's mom looks concerned.
"It's not the swing," I reassure her. "He's just having a hard morning." I'm not sure she can hear me, though.
"I want to go that way!" Clayton yells. "I want to stay here!"
Back at the car, I manhandle him into his seat--"I don't want to go! I don't want to go!" -- and we drive by the library so I can at least return the books. There's no way we're doing storytime. All the way home, he screams. " I don't want to go!" turns into "I want to go to the library!" and then "Turn that off!" (I'm trying to listen to the radio.) His screams break a little with the violence of a yawn. I drive around the block, hoping for a miracle nap. Nothing. I'm dreading the next hour, trying to get everyone up the stairs, fed, diapered, to bed. But the storm passes and in a few minutes the boys are eating the hard-boiled eggs I'd made for our post-storytime picnic and last night's left-over noodles. There has never been a smoother quiet time, and I sit on the back porch and eat two pieces of cheese toast with our garden's end-of-the-season tomatoes and read my sister's letter. It is an idyllic fall day, the leaves all golden around me, the sky brilliantly blue after yesterday's rain. Sylvia's playing happily under the table, pulling up on my leg. Did the universe know how much I needed this?
* * *
That afternoon. All the kids are up from naps or "quiet time" by two o'clock. (Clayton, unbelievably, still did not sleep!) Don has a cross country race so I'm on my own until after seven. The morning, I feel, needs to be redeemed and it is so so beautiful. "Let's go to the river!" I say. Never mind that last time was a disaster, the boys fighting over who got to ride in the stroller, me literally pinning Clayton down in a time-out on the side of the greenway for pushing Townes. This time, I think, I'll bring the triple stroller, so, with one on my back, they can all ride if it comes to that. I didn't foresee Clayton tantrumming, yet again, about which seat he will ride in. But even he seems to have little stomach left for his own bad temper today and eventually acquiesces to ride in the front where he won't squish Townes' legs. We are a sight, I'm sure. Three kids in the stroller, Dee Dee on my back. I have the same sort of jubilant, self-sufficient feeling I used to get while backpacking, carrying everything I needed to survive on my back. I'm singing, "The Wheels on the Stroller" and any other song I can think of to keep from hearing Clayton beg, "Tell me about a story!" We make it to the playground only half a dozen "You really have your hands full!"s later. Townes, Clayton, and Dee Dee are all in the swings, Sylvia's practicing her downward dog in the mulch and playing with my water bottle. I'm making up silly rhymes: "Sylvie, Sylvie, you're my daughter, standing on your head to drink some water" and we're all giggling. Later, Dee Dee climbs up the stairs to the slide by herself and grins like crazy. She is so proud of herself and my heart feels about to burst that I get to be here for this.
* * *
Recently Clayton has been begging non-stop for stories, of which he wants to dictate the plot lines and characters. They all involve a friend of his, who, in his stories, is constantly getting thwarted and left out. She wants to ride a bicycle, the wheels fall off. She goes fishing, the fish eats her up. ("What does she say in the fish's mouth?" Clayton asks.) She wants to play with Clayton, Clayton goes home. She meets a lion, monkey, zebra, you name it, and they all do something mean to her or leave her out in some way. "What does she say?" he keeps wanting to know. "What does she say?"
At first, I let him play them out, a little fascinated. What inner emotion (maybe about his sisters, my sister-in-law wondered?) was he trying to get a handle on through these cruel stories? But by yesterday, I'd had enough. Talking to Don about it last night, I resolved to put a stop to them. So today on the way to school I told him, "I'm only going to tell you three stories today. And there's not going to be about Jessica." (Name has been changed!)
"What do the animals do?" he wants to know.
"They're mean to her," I tell him, "and we're not going to talk about it anymore."
He seems almost relieved. "Let's just look around," he says, although it sounds like "Let's just ook around."
"Good idea!" I say. "Look at all the beautiful leaves!"
"And the trees!" he says enthusiastically. "And the pretty flowers!" Hallelujah! I might just make it through today!
***
Townes says often, "Mama at work!"
Clayton wonders, Does his mama work?
"I take care of kids," I tell him again.
"You take care of me, Sylvia, Dee Dee, Townes. Do you take care of Mama?"
"I try," I tell him, laughing. "I try." Then I make a cup of tea.
***
Sylvia has been fussing all morning. She won't sleep, but won't let me put her down, either. I've tried nursing her several times, hoping she'll calm enough to go to sleep, and she's finally lying quietly. Maybe this time? I'm about to sneak out when Clayton barges through the door: "Mama! Can I come in here with you guys?" Sylvia is immediately wide awake. Is this my punishment for having gloated over how easily she once napped?
***
Some chaos or frustration I can't remember. I'm standing in the kitchen, feeling sorry for myself. I'm sick of washing trays, sick of stinky diapers, sick of pushing swings, sick of negotiating naps, sick of telling stories, sick of carseats, tantrums, parks. Sick of making it look easy.
"I can't do this!" I say to myself.
Clayton looks over. "Yes, you can Mama! You can do it!"
***
Could two babies be more different? Dee Dee eats her food by the fistfuls, her tray cleared before Sylvia has finished her first careful survey, bringing the choicest morsels delicately to her mouth between thumb and finger. Dee Dee will sometimes sleep twelve, thirteen hours at a stretch; Sylvia has yet to sleep through the night and is ready for the day at quarter 'til six. Dee Dee loves the bath; Sylvia stands up on the side of the tub, sucks on a washcloth, and complains. Sylvia poops neatly on the potty twice a day; Dee Dee messes her diaper enthusiastically as often as she can. To swing makes Dee Dee laugh and kick; Sylvia is content to sit and watch as if contemplating the physics, my mother says. Dee Dee often cries when strangers get too close; Sylvia flirts and cuddles right up. But right now as they both unload the recycling bin all over the porch and play the drums on the barbecue grill and mimic each other's noises and look over at me with identical sheepishness and pride, they do not seem so different after all.
* * *
4:40 in a motel room in Piedmont, Alabama, where we've come to celebrate Don's parents' sixtieth anniversary. It doesn't matter that it's 5:40 our time, pretty par for the course for Sylvia waking. It's still darn early, pitch black outside, the stars still out and no sign of dawn. We didn't get everyone to sleep until just before midnight (or, God help us, one o'clock our time) and my nipples feel raw and my breasts deflated from trying endlessly-- or so it felt-- to nurse the girls to sleep after their brother got them pretty well jazzed up with his late night "happy jollies" (as my brother-in-law calls the after bed-time, over-tired, frenzied energy surge). Now said brother is lying, amazingly still asleep, on the floor between the two queen beds. He fell out of bed in the middle of the night but didn't wake up, so I just left him where he lay. Now I'm anxious to get the girls quiet. Two weeks ago when we went camping, an over-tired Clayton meant for a very rough next day and I'd hate for Clay's grumpiness to mar Don's parents' celebration. So I scoop up the girls-- Sylvia has managed to wake Dee Dee, who usually sleeps until after seven-- and go out to the car. I've pulled on some shorts but I'm still in my pyjama top-- I'm pretty sure I've got a sweatshirt in the car. The girls are still in their nighttime diapers, but, darn it, the diaper bag's back in the room! I don't dare go back inside for fear of waking Clayton. Still, they've only had them on for a few hours, I tell myself.
There's not much happening in Piedmont, Alabama at five on a Saturday morning. We creep aimlessly down the deserted highway and pass a McDonalds. It's open! The girls stuff themselves on pancakes while I sip coffee. Afterwards, they play happily with the butter patty packages and I start a letter to my sister on an old notepad I find in the car. This is not the selflessness Buddha talks of; I'm not on my way to nirvana. But still, dragging myself out of bed and to McDonalds at five o'clock in the morning after fewer than five not-very-restful hours sleep-- it's a lesson in something. The girls make everyone smile-- this McDonalds is happening-- and soon all the regulars are talking about twins over their McMuffins and 39 cent senior coffees. It may not be nirvana, but it's a moment I'll remember, a little piece of unexpected joy. We could be a McDonalds' commercial. Can you forgive me? I really am lovin' it.
* * *
We're headed to the library. I'm carrying Sylvia down the stairs to the garage, Townes and Clayton on my heels. Dee Dee is in the living room, waiting her turn, the gate closed at the top of the stairs. I put Sylvia in the car and hear Clayton yelling, Dee Dee crying. I rush back past Townes and see Dee Dee and Clayton at the top of the stairs. Clayton has somehow managed to push the gate open, and Dee Dee, ever alert for an opportunity, is determined to head down, too. She's crying because Clayton has hold of her by the back of the shirt, grimacing with the effort to hold her back, yelling, "No, Dee Dee, no!"
***
We're at the park-- Clayton has been swinging for half an hour. Time to leave for storytime if we're going to make it. Plus, there's a little girl who wants the swing. Two more minutes, I tell him, and then, "Okay, time to go and let the little girl have a turn."
"I don't want to go!"
He won't be persuaded to give up the swing willingly, so I end up wrestling him out of it. That's not an easy task even when he's cooperating, since he's really too big for the baby swing he insists on using and his feet always get stuck. Now he's hanging on for dear life with both hands and feet. Still, I'm determined not to let him get his way, and finally, he's out. His screams are deafening, and the girl's mom looks concerned.
"It's not the swing," I reassure her. "He's just having a hard morning." I'm not sure she can hear me, though.
"I want to go that way!" Clayton yells. "I want to stay here!"
Back at the car, I manhandle him into his seat--"I don't want to go! I don't want to go!" -- and we drive by the library so I can at least return the books. There's no way we're doing storytime. All the way home, he screams. " I don't want to go!" turns into "I want to go to the library!" and then "Turn that off!" (I'm trying to listen to the radio.) His screams break a little with the violence of a yawn. I drive around the block, hoping for a miracle nap. Nothing. I'm dreading the next hour, trying to get everyone up the stairs, fed, diapered, to bed. But the storm passes and in a few minutes the boys are eating the hard-boiled eggs I'd made for our post-storytime picnic and last night's left-over noodles. There has never been a smoother quiet time, and I sit on the back porch and eat two pieces of cheese toast with our garden's end-of-the-season tomatoes and read my sister's letter. It is an idyllic fall day, the leaves all golden around me, the sky brilliantly blue after yesterday's rain. Sylvia's playing happily under the table, pulling up on my leg. Did the universe know how much I needed this?
* * *
That afternoon. All the kids are up from naps or "quiet time" by two o'clock. (Clayton, unbelievably, still did not sleep!) Don has a cross country race so I'm on my own until after seven. The morning, I feel, needs to be redeemed and it is so so beautiful. "Let's go to the river!" I say. Never mind that last time was a disaster, the boys fighting over who got to ride in the stroller, me literally pinning Clayton down in a time-out on the side of the greenway for pushing Townes. This time, I think, I'll bring the triple stroller, so, with one on my back, they can all ride if it comes to that. I didn't foresee Clayton tantrumming, yet again, about which seat he will ride in. But even he seems to have little stomach left for his own bad temper today and eventually acquiesces to ride in the front where he won't squish Townes' legs. We are a sight, I'm sure. Three kids in the stroller, Dee Dee on my back. I have the same sort of jubilant, self-sufficient feeling I used to get while backpacking, carrying everything I needed to survive on my back. I'm singing, "The Wheels on the Stroller" and any other song I can think of to keep from hearing Clayton beg, "Tell me about a story!" We make it to the playground only half a dozen "You really have your hands full!"s later. Townes, Clayton, and Dee Dee are all in the swings, Sylvia's practicing her downward dog in the mulch and playing with my water bottle. I'm making up silly rhymes: "Sylvie, Sylvie, you're my daughter, standing on your head to drink some water" and we're all giggling. Later, Dee Dee climbs up the stairs to the slide by herself and grins like crazy. She is so proud of herself and my heart feels about to burst that I get to be here for this.
* * *
Recently Clayton has been begging non-stop for stories, of which he wants to dictate the plot lines and characters. They all involve a friend of his, who, in his stories, is constantly getting thwarted and left out. She wants to ride a bicycle, the wheels fall off. She goes fishing, the fish eats her up. ("What does she say in the fish's mouth?" Clayton asks.) She wants to play with Clayton, Clayton goes home. She meets a lion, monkey, zebra, you name it, and they all do something mean to her or leave her out in some way. "What does she say?" he keeps wanting to know. "What does she say?"
At first, I let him play them out, a little fascinated. What inner emotion (maybe about his sisters, my sister-in-law wondered?) was he trying to get a handle on through these cruel stories? But by yesterday, I'd had enough. Talking to Don about it last night, I resolved to put a stop to them. So today on the way to school I told him, "I'm only going to tell you three stories today. And there's not going to be about Jessica." (Name has been changed!)
"What do the animals do?" he wants to know.
"They're mean to her," I tell him, "and we're not going to talk about it anymore."
He seems almost relieved. "Let's just look around," he says, although it sounds like "Let's just ook around."
"Good idea!" I say. "Look at all the beautiful leaves!"
"And the trees!" he says enthusiastically. "And the pretty flowers!" Hallelujah! I might just make it through today!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Whatever Works
A friend of mine with a newborn baby told me recently of her struggles to get her daughter to sleep. The baby, she said, would fall asleep while nursing, but, unless deeply asleep, would wake up if she tried to move or lay the baby down. I had two very strong reactions to hearing this. One was to thank my lucky stars that my girls nap more readily than that. Dee Dee is a piece of cake, and Sylvia, although resistant at times, requires nowhere near that kind of attention. Thank God, because I couldn't give it to her, even if she did. I barely have time to pat her back for ten seconds while shooing Townes out of the room with my other hand.
My other reaction was pure empathy. How I hated nap time with Clayton! Only three more years until he won't need a nap, I calculated on a daily basis. I planned my day-- car rides, walks, runs-- to coordinate with nap times, stressed myself out over his endless screaming, nursed him until my nipples hurt, kicked myself when he fell off the bed after I'd nursed him to sleep there and didn't have the courage to move him. And all the while, I felt guilty, as if his difficulty sleeping was my fault, a "problem" I hadn't figured out how to "fix." And no wonder, really. My bookshelves were full of books passed on by other mothers: The No-Cry Sleep Solution, Fixing Your Child's Sleep Problems. Everywhere I turned, I heard well-meaning advice, most of which served only to make me feel that I wasn't doing it "right." I felt heartless if I let him cry and spineless if I didn't. I worried that the naps I coaxed out of him in the jogging stroller didn't "count," akin, as one author wrote, to an adult sleeping on an airplane. (That book, I think, should be banned, until airplane seats are like comfy hammocks that cradle your entire body, with fresh air and passing scenery.)
With a few years' perspective under my belt, and more experience mothering infants than I ever anticipated, I want to write my own parenting-advice book. Ironic, really, since the only advice I'd ever allow myself to give to new mothers is to avoid parenting books at all cost. Still, if I did write a book, I would call it Whatever Works. Does your baby only fall asleep at the breast? Read a lot and sleep yourself and don't feel guilty! Does your baby only sleep in the stroller? Go for a lot of walks and don't feel guilty! Does your baby need a destination-less car ride? Enjoy the scenery, park in a shady spot with a good book (maybe donate a few extra bucks to the Sierra Club?) and don't feel guilty. (I struggled with writing that last phrase for a good long while, because even now, when I extend our trip home around the neighborhood, praying that the few extra miles will miraculously make Clayton take the nap that he has all but given up, I still feel guilty.)
But even as I mentally compose the book jacket summary for my imaginary Whatever Works book, I wonder just how far that philosphy really goes. The other day after we had been to toddler gymnastics, Clayton refused to get in his car seat for the drive home. The other kids were all buckled in, but he was obstinately climbing around in the van. I could sense him gearing up for a real power struggle, one that would inevitably end with me physically pinning him down while I buckled him in, a technique that was getting harder as he fast approached (or topped?) forty pounds and which made for a very tearful (and loud) car ride home. But, as he climbed between his sisters to the front seat, he spied an almost empty bag of M&Ms on the console. They had worked so well during potty training that I had tried them a few days before as an incentive for "going to school happy" since his sobs of "Don't leave me, Momma!" and "I don't want to go!" were wearing me down.
Now he said, "I want an M&M."
"M&Ms are for good boys who listen to their Mamas and get in their seats," I told him.
Within seconds he was buckled in and we were happily on our way, a tantrum averted by one blue M&M. Whatever works, I thought, and truly I did not feel guilty about that particular candy bribe. But the incident reminded me that my "whatever works" philosophy did not, could not, extend indefinitely. I am not above using the grocery store's offer of "free popcorn for kids" to get us through the aisles in one piece; one too many poops in the backyard convinced us to up the ante for pooping on the potty to half a mini ice-cream sandwich. But neither am I willing to make food-- even one measly M&M-- a "get out of a tantrum free" card, especially since I know enough about almost-three-year-olds now to accept that tantrums are like sneezes (or maybe more accurately, but indelicately, farts): you can try to put them off but they're bound to happen anyway. Watching a movie on a rainy Saturday morning is fine once in a while, but I never want to live in a household, never mind run one, in which television becomes the easy answer to "Momma, I want to do something!"
Anyway, part of the satisfaction of parenting, I think, comes from holding the line. When Clayton is sobbing violently about wanting to watch "just one more video," what he really wants, ultimately, is to know that his hysterics, no matter how theatrical or extreme, are not going to change the limit I have set. In this way, raising kids is not so different from running a high school classroom. It turns out toddlers and teenagers both want to know what the "rules" are, and make it their job to test them, just to make sure you know, too. That Clayton ultimately appreciates that I didn't let him watch "just one more" I find out for sure at dinner, when he tells his dad about his day.
"It was time to turn the videos off, and I wanted to watch one more and I cried, "Wa, wa, wa!" and I had to go to my room," he reports cheerfully.
"And did you get to watch one more?" his dad asks.
"No, I didn't," he says matter-of-factly, as if it were a stupid question. "It was time to turn them off."
So, I guess "whatever works" only goes so far. I was more than happy to let the girls sleep in their carseats, instead of their cribs, for the first six months of their lives. People raised their eyebrows, but, hell, it worked for us. They slept well and we could easily move them around the house to "shove binkies" and jiggle them to sleep, while still managing to cook dinner, play with Clayton, or even watch an occasional episode of The West Wing. But if we always took the path of least resistance with Clayton, we'd have a dirty-haired, grubby-handed, M&M-eating video addict who poops standing up by the fish pond and smears play dough all over the coffee table while standing on his sisters' heads for a son. (In addition to our mulch-eating daughters.)
I suppose parenting involves a gradual shift from "whatever works" to something else, something harder and more complicated that I haven't yet found an alliterative catch-phrase to describe. I do know that now that Sylvia's waking up numerous times a night again, I'm just going to nurse her without feeling guilty, without wondering if I'm perpetuating her wakefulness by "rewarding" her with milk every time she cries, without trying to "fix" it. Because, ultimately, all these months without an uninterrupted night's sleep are just a blip, just a fleeting moment in the span of her life and of ours. There will be time enough to wonder if I'm doing it right soon enough. For now I'm treasuring doing whatever works.
My other reaction was pure empathy. How I hated nap time with Clayton! Only three more years until he won't need a nap, I calculated on a daily basis. I planned my day-- car rides, walks, runs-- to coordinate with nap times, stressed myself out over his endless screaming, nursed him until my nipples hurt, kicked myself when he fell off the bed after I'd nursed him to sleep there and didn't have the courage to move him. And all the while, I felt guilty, as if his difficulty sleeping was my fault, a "problem" I hadn't figured out how to "fix." And no wonder, really. My bookshelves were full of books passed on by other mothers: The No-Cry Sleep Solution, Fixing Your Child's Sleep Problems. Everywhere I turned, I heard well-meaning advice, most of which served only to make me feel that I wasn't doing it "right." I felt heartless if I let him cry and spineless if I didn't. I worried that the naps I coaxed out of him in the jogging stroller didn't "count," akin, as one author wrote, to an adult sleeping on an airplane. (That book, I think, should be banned, until airplane seats are like comfy hammocks that cradle your entire body, with fresh air and passing scenery.)
With a few years' perspective under my belt, and more experience mothering infants than I ever anticipated, I want to write my own parenting-advice book. Ironic, really, since the only advice I'd ever allow myself to give to new mothers is to avoid parenting books at all cost. Still, if I did write a book, I would call it Whatever Works. Does your baby only fall asleep at the breast? Read a lot and sleep yourself and don't feel guilty! Does your baby only sleep in the stroller? Go for a lot of walks and don't feel guilty! Does your baby need a destination-less car ride? Enjoy the scenery, park in a shady spot with a good book (maybe donate a few extra bucks to the Sierra Club?) and don't feel guilty. (I struggled with writing that last phrase for a good long while, because even now, when I extend our trip home around the neighborhood, praying that the few extra miles will miraculously make Clayton take the nap that he has all but given up, I still feel guilty.)
But even as I mentally compose the book jacket summary for my imaginary Whatever Works book, I wonder just how far that philosphy really goes. The other day after we had been to toddler gymnastics, Clayton refused to get in his car seat for the drive home. The other kids were all buckled in, but he was obstinately climbing around in the van. I could sense him gearing up for a real power struggle, one that would inevitably end with me physically pinning him down while I buckled him in, a technique that was getting harder as he fast approached (or topped?) forty pounds and which made for a very tearful (and loud) car ride home. But, as he climbed between his sisters to the front seat, he spied an almost empty bag of M&Ms on the console. They had worked so well during potty training that I had tried them a few days before as an incentive for "going to school happy" since his sobs of "Don't leave me, Momma!" and "I don't want to go!" were wearing me down.
Now he said, "I want an M&M."
"M&Ms are for good boys who listen to their Mamas and get in their seats," I told him.
Within seconds he was buckled in and we were happily on our way, a tantrum averted by one blue M&M. Whatever works, I thought, and truly I did not feel guilty about that particular candy bribe. But the incident reminded me that my "whatever works" philosophy did not, could not, extend indefinitely. I am not above using the grocery store's offer of "free popcorn for kids" to get us through the aisles in one piece; one too many poops in the backyard convinced us to up the ante for pooping on the potty to half a mini ice-cream sandwich. But neither am I willing to make food-- even one measly M&M-- a "get out of a tantrum free" card, especially since I know enough about almost-three-year-olds now to accept that tantrums are like sneezes (or maybe more accurately, but indelicately, farts): you can try to put them off but they're bound to happen anyway. Watching a movie on a rainy Saturday morning is fine once in a while, but I never want to live in a household, never mind run one, in which television becomes the easy answer to "Momma, I want to do something!"
Anyway, part of the satisfaction of parenting, I think, comes from holding the line. When Clayton is sobbing violently about wanting to watch "just one more video," what he really wants, ultimately, is to know that his hysterics, no matter how theatrical or extreme, are not going to change the limit I have set. In this way, raising kids is not so different from running a high school classroom. It turns out toddlers and teenagers both want to know what the "rules" are, and make it their job to test them, just to make sure you know, too. That Clayton ultimately appreciates that I didn't let him watch "just one more" I find out for sure at dinner, when he tells his dad about his day.
"It was time to turn the videos off, and I wanted to watch one more and I cried, "Wa, wa, wa!" and I had to go to my room," he reports cheerfully.
"And did you get to watch one more?" his dad asks.
"No, I didn't," he says matter-of-factly, as if it were a stupid question. "It was time to turn them off."
So, I guess "whatever works" only goes so far. I was more than happy to let the girls sleep in their carseats, instead of their cribs, for the first six months of their lives. People raised their eyebrows, but, hell, it worked for us. They slept well and we could easily move them around the house to "shove binkies" and jiggle them to sleep, while still managing to cook dinner, play with Clayton, or even watch an occasional episode of The West Wing. But if we always took the path of least resistance with Clayton, we'd have a dirty-haired, grubby-handed, M&M-eating video addict who poops standing up by the fish pond and smears play dough all over the coffee table while standing on his sisters' heads for a son. (In addition to our mulch-eating daughters.)
I suppose parenting involves a gradual shift from "whatever works" to something else, something harder and more complicated that I haven't yet found an alliterative catch-phrase to describe. I do know that now that Sylvia's waking up numerous times a night again, I'm just going to nurse her without feeling guilty, without wondering if I'm perpetuating her wakefulness by "rewarding" her with milk every time she cries, without trying to "fix" it. Because, ultimately, all these months without an uninterrupted night's sleep are just a blip, just a fleeting moment in the span of her life and of ours. There will be time enough to wonder if I'm doing it right soon enough. For now I'm treasuring doing whatever works.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
"You really have your hands full!"
Yesterday was quite possibly the hardest day of work in my life. It seems worth trying to record so that in the future I'll be able to remember just how challenging this time was, for whatever that's worth.
6:45 Townes arrives and Clayton wakes up. An excited "Townes is here!" is soon replaced by "That's my train!" and "That's my truck." A few hurried bites of cereal are squeezed between "More milk!" (Townes) and "That's my milk!" (Clayton). Soon it's "Get down?" (Townes) and "Momma, tell Townes not yet!" (Clayton).
7:00-9:00 God, who knows. Lots of poopy diapers, snotty noses, and crying babies while running constant interference between Clayton and Townes. One time-out for Clayton in his room leads to me finding him contently building towers with his blocks when I open the door. Townes wants to play blocks, too. "Perfect!" I think, "We'll play blocks together." True, block towers and crawling babies aren't the best combination, but at least the boys will be engaged and content for a little while. But when Clayton closes the door, Townes bursts into tears, even though we're all inside. "Ama (open) door!" he screams. Console, console; negotiate, negotiate. Townes cries when the door is closed; Clayton tantrums when it's opened. I put Dee Dee in her pack-n-play, wanting to get her morning nap over with so we can leave the house, and all the conflicts it seems to generate, as soon as possible. She's not really sleepy yet; I can hear her fussing in protest at being put down so early.
"We're leaving!" I announce. "Everybody down the stairs!"
"Blue car!" Townes says happily through his pacifier.
"Momma, tell Townes to be careful!" Clayton instructs me as he heads down the stairs.
I rescue Dee Dee from her pack-n-play (she is reliably cheerful), and get everyone downstairs and buckled into their carseats to a chorus of "My paci!", "I want toast!", "My truck!", "I want more books!" I'm up and down the stairs gathering books, diapers, pacifiers, water bottles, but at least they're safely (if loudly) buckled in if I have to leave them unsupervised for a second.
9:15 We're off! I outline the day for them: riding bikes at the park, storytime at the library, then home for lunch, quiet time, videos. That, I think, should cruise us easily 'til 2 o'clock when Don has said he'll probably be home-- today is an early release day at school.
We get to the park, and I get everyone and all their "wheels" unloaded: stroller for the girls, bikes for the boys. We head onto the tennis court and the boys bike around happily for a while. We're all content for the most part, except for when Clayton "accidentally" crashes into a crawling Dee Dee.
Soon, though, it's "I want to do something else!" so we head up to the playground. Clayton insists on the one baby swing, and even knowing how ridiculous it is since he easily outweighs the others by almost twenty pounds, that is one battle that I don't have the strength to fight this morning. So Clayton goes in the baby swing ("Momma, push me higher!"), little Townes on the "big boy swing," Dee Dee on my back in the Ergo, and Sylvia still in the stroller. I push the boys while trying to angle Sylvia out of the sun and keep the stroller rocking.
Another mom approaches with her little girl. "You've really got your hands full!" she says. I bite my tongue to keep from saying, "You know, you're the first person who's ever told me that," and proceed to talk her ear off: "Well, it was great for the first two weeks, Clayton was much more manageable, but now the 'sibling' squabbling has begun, blah, blah, blah." Turns out she works part time and tag teams childcare with her partner, so she's probably not quite as starved for adult conversation as I am. Still, we have an interesting conversation about gender and parenting while we push swings and I pretend I'm the troll under the bridge in the Three Billy Goats Gruff.
"Do you feel the same maternal instincts for Arena (the little girl whom her partner had birthed)-- Trip, trop, who's that crossing my bridge?-- as for your other daughter?" Meanwhile, poor Dee Dee is rubbing her eyes desperately and banging her head against my back, which she does when she's tired. I'm still rocking Sylvia in the stroller; she's got her feet up on the bar like it's a foot rest, sucking on her paci. The boys move into the sandbox and after a while I check the time. It's 10:35, time to go if we're going to make storytime at eleven. But the thought of loading everyone up and unloading again at the library feels overwhelming, and I think of my father's timeless parenting advice: don't make happy children happier.
"Do we want to go the library or are we happy here at the park?" I ask Clayton.
"We're happy here at the park," he says.
A few minutes later another mom arrives with two little kids in a double stroller and one more in an Ergo. Again I bite my tongue so I won't say, "Looks like you've got your hands full!" Still, finding another mom caring for multiple little kids is rare, and I want to talk to her. "Are they all yours?" I ask instead, helping her four-year-old cross the monkey bars.
"I want to do that!" Clayton announces, so I help him, too. He's hanging onto the bars with my help when Sylvia, whom I've stopped rocking for the moment, starts to cry.
"I need to put you down so I can help Sylvia," I tell him, but he won't let go. Sylvia cries harder; she's lost her pacifier. "Come on!" I coax. "Let go! I have to help your sister!" But still he hangs on. I don't want to leave him hanging there; it's a long drop. Now Sylvia's really gearing up. Finally I manage to yank Clayton's hands free from the bars and retrieve Sylvia's paci.
Clayton wants to swing again, so back to the swings we go. I'm feeling cruel for keeping Dee Dee awake so long, and I'm starting to get thirsty and hungry. I look at the time and it's pushing eleven.
"A few more minutes and we're going to go home for lunch," I tell the boys.
Clayton looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "No, Momma," he says. "The library's next!"
I try to explain that we're too late for storytime, that we can go to the library but there won't be kids or Ms. Morna, only books. His disappointment is killing me-- this was not the chain of events I'd outlined! I check the time again: eight minutes until storytime. Well, maybe we can make some of it, I think, if we leave right now. I pull Clayton out of the swing and he immediately climbs into the front of the stroller, but I don't have time to negotiate about how he's too big, it's too heavy... I muscle the stroller over the mulch and onto the path, Townes trailing behind. I collect the bikes from the tennis court, rush to the car. Girls buckled in, boys buckled in, stroller loaded, bikes loaded, granola bar found for boys begging for a snack, and off we go. It's a quick drive to the library. Out comes the stroller-- oh, goddamn it, the bikes are on top!-- out come the girls still buckled into their carseats (I simply can't stand to get them out), out come the boys (granola bars discarded onto the floor, I see), out come last week's library books. Once inside, routine takes over-- Clayton is immediately engaged in the book Ms. Morna's reading, the girls sit in their carseats looking dazed, Townes watches the girls, looking dazed himself. I pull books to check out for this week off the shelf from where I sit. I am desperate to get Dee Dee home to bed as quickly as possible when this is over. Before I know it, Ms. Morna is singing, "Two little hands wave bye-bye!" The girls get loaded back into the stroller, then we're at the counter checking out the books. I am amazed at how smoothly things are going, but my stomach is on edge, waiting for something, or rather someone, to fall apart.
"What about Three Billy Goats Gruff?" Clayton insists. In a more relaxed moment, I had suggested we check it out from the library since he had liked our game at the park so much. I send him over to ask Ms. Morna to help us find it. If teaching high school students has taught Don and me anything, it's to raise our kids knowing how to talk to adults. And if taking care of four kids myself has taught me anything, it's to know when to ask for help! Ms. Morna, the angel that she is, soon appears with an urban version of the three billy goats. "Good enough!" I say and we're off. I prop the doors of the library open so I can push the behemoth stroller through. Clayton heads out the door, but when he gets outside he plops down on the sidewalk so he can read The Three Cool Kids. Everyone is loaded up, again, library books slotted next to Clayton in his carseat, stroller dumped on top of the bikes. The girls are losing it and cry all the way home. Clayton's begging, "Momma, read this book!" from the back. Townes looks like he'd be asleep already if not for all the screaming.
12:00 We pull into the garage, girls still crying. I hate to leave one screaming in the car while I carry the other upstairs, so I opt for the Ergo. I have to lay Dee Dee down on the garage floor while I put it on since she won't bend her legs to sit. Finally, she's in the Ergo, I've got Sylvia in my arms, but, uh-oh, the boys are still buckled in. Clayton I can do one-handed, but Townes is harder. Dee Dee starts to cry again; I've accidentally banged her head into the van door as I reach to unbuckle Townes. Oops. I put Sylvia down so I can reach Townes carseat-- more tears. Clayton's still carrying his book: "Momma read the Three Billy Goats Rough?"
I put Sylvia in her booster, throw a pizza in the microwave, pour milk into sippy cups. "I don't WANT pizza!" Clayton announces. Any other day, any other moment, I would have said, "Tough, that's what's for lunch," but at the moment I don't have the energy to hold that particular line. The quesadilla Townes didn't eat for lunch yesterday is in the fridge, so I give that to Clayton. Within minutes, though, he's coveting the pizza Townes isn't eating for lunch today.
After the boys (or rather, Clayton) eats, I change Townes' diaper and we head down the stairs for quiet time. I've thrown some banana puffs on the girls' trays to keep them happy for a few more minutes. Halfway down the stairs I remember Clayton hasn't peed, so back up we go.
"Momma, say, 'Look at Clayton peeing on the potty, Townes." Dutifully, I repeat my line, although Townes is already watching intently.
I put an exhausted Townes into his pack-n-play, get Clayton set up on the futon, run to the car to get him the library books (he usually reads while Townes naps), and head back up to the girls. I throw a few more banana puffs on Sylvia's tray while I change Dee Dee's diaper and put her to bed. I then take off Sylvia's pants and diaper to sit her on the potty. I am so accustomed to her pooping on the potty that I am shocked to see that the diaper I am holding is full of poop; I guess she got tired of waiting for her turn. I've gotten her cleaned up and into bed (if not to sleep) when I think, "I still smell poop!" I look down and realize why: the front of my shirt is covered with unmistakable brown smears. I strip to my nursing bra and throw the shirt in the laundry, but I don't want to go into my room to get another with Dee Dee finally asleep. Plus, I'm starving. I'm finally putting cheese on toast after several trips to Sylvia's room to find her pacifier-- she's finally quiet-- when I hear the clomp, clomp of little feet on the stairs and Clayton appears at the baby gate. No, I think, it can't be...
"I had a nice rest!" he announces. "I want to watch my videos now." I look at the clock. It has been over thirty minutes since I put him and Townes down, the minimum amount of "quiet time" I insist on.
"Can't you do ten more minutes?" I plead.
"I had a nice rest!"
Reluctantly I set him up on the couch and put on one of the videos we checked out at the library. It seems loud, though, so I reach for the remote to turn it down and accidentally mash the wrong button. The screen goes blank.
"Uh-oh, Momma!" Clayton says.
I am sure I just changed the channel accidentally, but nothing I do seems to fix it. Meanwhile Clayton keeps repeating, "I want to watch my video. I want to watch my video. What happened to it? Your boobies!" He's pointing at my chest, and I realize I'm still in my bra.
"Stop talking!" I tell him.
He looks at me in surprise and something very close to indignation. "I want to talk!"
"You're right," I tell him. "You can talk, but I can't fix this. How about you watch videos on the computer?" (Thank God for youtube!)
I eat my cheese toast and try to clean up the kitchen from both its breakfast and lunch mess while Clayton watches old Bugs Bunny videos. I'm making some headway when I hear Townes crying. Already? I bring him upstairs and think, "This time I'll do this right." Townes doesn't like to watch videos, so I find a Thomas the Tank Engine sticker and coloring book that Clayton has long since lost interest in. I get out the markers and set Townes up at the end of the coffee table.
Clayton looks up from his videos. "That's my book!" He grabs it from Townes, tears the cover, and throws it onto the floor. I close the laptop on Clayton's videos and haul him kicking and screaming to his bed for another time-out.
Several minutes later: Clayton comes out of his room from his time out, Townes is playing with a train at the coffee table. "My train!" Clayton says and tries to pry it from Townes' grip. Townes gets mad and throws it, startling Dulce who has a painful lump on her head that was just diagnosed as cancerous the day before. Immediately Clayton grabs another train and throws it, nearly missing Dulce again. The rage I feel surprises me. I pick Clayton up to take him to his room-- again. I am not yelling, but somehow it's worse. I am practically growling at him through clenched teeth, all my anxiety about Dulce over the last few awful days channeled into that moment: I cannot stand to see her hurt any more than she already is.
2:00 The next round is less dramatic, but Clayton is still being a pest, flying his airplane around Townes' head, trying to make him cry. Townes obliges easily. By afternoon he is fragile, ready to go home.
I give Clayton a choice: play in his room or on the porch. Physical separation seems the best approach right now.
"On the porch!" he says.
"Okay," I say, and lock the door after him. Townes I take outside through the back door. It is several peaceful moments before Clayton realizes what's happened. He's trying to get back inside, but I call to him, "We're down here!"
He's still on the other side of the fence, so I've got some leverage. I tell him he has to play nicely or he's going back in.
The next twenty minutes or so are bliss, comparatively. Clayton is smearing play dough all over the driveway, Townes is riding his bike saying every twenty seconds, "Momma at work," the girls are eating play dough and pulling each other's hair, but relatively, there's peace. When Don finally comes home after three, we are the picture of domestic bliss.
Don is going to take the lawn mower to a welder since the wheel fell off last weekend. "Why don't you take all three?" I suggest. "They might like the ride." I can't get them loaded up fast enough. When Townes' father finally picks up Townes twenty minutes later, I collapse into a chair on the porch. I'm supposed to go for a run but all I want to do is eat cookies. So I do.
6:45 Townes arrives and Clayton wakes up. An excited "Townes is here!" is soon replaced by "That's my train!" and "That's my truck." A few hurried bites of cereal are squeezed between "More milk!" (Townes) and "That's my milk!" (Clayton). Soon it's "Get down?" (Townes) and "Momma, tell Townes not yet!" (Clayton).
7:00-9:00 God, who knows. Lots of poopy diapers, snotty noses, and crying babies while running constant interference between Clayton and Townes. One time-out for Clayton in his room leads to me finding him contently building towers with his blocks when I open the door. Townes wants to play blocks, too. "Perfect!" I think, "We'll play blocks together." True, block towers and crawling babies aren't the best combination, but at least the boys will be engaged and content for a little while. But when Clayton closes the door, Townes bursts into tears, even though we're all inside. "Ama (open) door!" he screams. Console, console; negotiate, negotiate. Townes cries when the door is closed; Clayton tantrums when it's opened. I put Dee Dee in her pack-n-play, wanting to get her morning nap over with so we can leave the house, and all the conflicts it seems to generate, as soon as possible. She's not really sleepy yet; I can hear her fussing in protest at being put down so early.
"We're leaving!" I announce. "Everybody down the stairs!"
"Blue car!" Townes says happily through his pacifier.
"Momma, tell Townes to be careful!" Clayton instructs me as he heads down the stairs.
I rescue Dee Dee from her pack-n-play (she is reliably cheerful), and get everyone downstairs and buckled into their carseats to a chorus of "My paci!", "I want toast!", "My truck!", "I want more books!" I'm up and down the stairs gathering books, diapers, pacifiers, water bottles, but at least they're safely (if loudly) buckled in if I have to leave them unsupervised for a second.
9:15 We're off! I outline the day for them: riding bikes at the park, storytime at the library, then home for lunch, quiet time, videos. That, I think, should cruise us easily 'til 2 o'clock when Don has said he'll probably be home-- today is an early release day at school.
We get to the park, and I get everyone and all their "wheels" unloaded: stroller for the girls, bikes for the boys. We head onto the tennis court and the boys bike around happily for a while. We're all content for the most part, except for when Clayton "accidentally" crashes into a crawling Dee Dee.
Soon, though, it's "I want to do something else!" so we head up to the playground. Clayton insists on the one baby swing, and even knowing how ridiculous it is since he easily outweighs the others by almost twenty pounds, that is one battle that I don't have the strength to fight this morning. So Clayton goes in the baby swing ("Momma, push me higher!"), little Townes on the "big boy swing," Dee Dee on my back in the Ergo, and Sylvia still in the stroller. I push the boys while trying to angle Sylvia out of the sun and keep the stroller rocking.
Another mom approaches with her little girl. "You've really got your hands full!" she says. I bite my tongue to keep from saying, "You know, you're the first person who's ever told me that," and proceed to talk her ear off: "Well, it was great for the first two weeks, Clayton was much more manageable, but now the 'sibling' squabbling has begun, blah, blah, blah." Turns out she works part time and tag teams childcare with her partner, so she's probably not quite as starved for adult conversation as I am. Still, we have an interesting conversation about gender and parenting while we push swings and I pretend I'm the troll under the bridge in the Three Billy Goats Gruff.
"Do you feel the same maternal instincts for Arena (the little girl whom her partner had birthed)-- Trip, trop, who's that crossing my bridge?-- as for your other daughter?" Meanwhile, poor Dee Dee is rubbing her eyes desperately and banging her head against my back, which she does when she's tired. I'm still rocking Sylvia in the stroller; she's got her feet up on the bar like it's a foot rest, sucking on her paci. The boys move into the sandbox and after a while I check the time. It's 10:35, time to go if we're going to make storytime at eleven. But the thought of loading everyone up and unloading again at the library feels overwhelming, and I think of my father's timeless parenting advice: don't make happy children happier.
"Do we want to go the library or are we happy here at the park?" I ask Clayton.
"We're happy here at the park," he says.
A few minutes later another mom arrives with two little kids in a double stroller and one more in an Ergo. Again I bite my tongue so I won't say, "Looks like you've got your hands full!" Still, finding another mom caring for multiple little kids is rare, and I want to talk to her. "Are they all yours?" I ask instead, helping her four-year-old cross the monkey bars.
"I want to do that!" Clayton announces, so I help him, too. He's hanging onto the bars with my help when Sylvia, whom I've stopped rocking for the moment, starts to cry.
"I need to put you down so I can help Sylvia," I tell him, but he won't let go. Sylvia cries harder; she's lost her pacifier. "Come on!" I coax. "Let go! I have to help your sister!" But still he hangs on. I don't want to leave him hanging there; it's a long drop. Now Sylvia's really gearing up. Finally I manage to yank Clayton's hands free from the bars and retrieve Sylvia's paci.
Clayton wants to swing again, so back to the swings we go. I'm feeling cruel for keeping Dee Dee awake so long, and I'm starting to get thirsty and hungry. I look at the time and it's pushing eleven.
"A few more minutes and we're going to go home for lunch," I tell the boys.
Clayton looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "No, Momma," he says. "The library's next!"
I try to explain that we're too late for storytime, that we can go to the library but there won't be kids or Ms. Morna, only books. His disappointment is killing me-- this was not the chain of events I'd outlined! I check the time again: eight minutes until storytime. Well, maybe we can make some of it, I think, if we leave right now. I pull Clayton out of the swing and he immediately climbs into the front of the stroller, but I don't have time to negotiate about how he's too big, it's too heavy... I muscle the stroller over the mulch and onto the path, Townes trailing behind. I collect the bikes from the tennis court, rush to the car. Girls buckled in, boys buckled in, stroller loaded, bikes loaded, granola bar found for boys begging for a snack, and off we go. It's a quick drive to the library. Out comes the stroller-- oh, goddamn it, the bikes are on top!-- out come the girls still buckled into their carseats (I simply can't stand to get them out), out come the boys (granola bars discarded onto the floor, I see), out come last week's library books. Once inside, routine takes over-- Clayton is immediately engaged in the book Ms. Morna's reading, the girls sit in their carseats looking dazed, Townes watches the girls, looking dazed himself. I pull books to check out for this week off the shelf from where I sit. I am desperate to get Dee Dee home to bed as quickly as possible when this is over. Before I know it, Ms. Morna is singing, "Two little hands wave bye-bye!" The girls get loaded back into the stroller, then we're at the counter checking out the books. I am amazed at how smoothly things are going, but my stomach is on edge, waiting for something, or rather someone, to fall apart.
"What about Three Billy Goats Gruff?" Clayton insists. In a more relaxed moment, I had suggested we check it out from the library since he had liked our game at the park so much. I send him over to ask Ms. Morna to help us find it. If teaching high school students has taught Don and me anything, it's to raise our kids knowing how to talk to adults. And if taking care of four kids myself has taught me anything, it's to know when to ask for help! Ms. Morna, the angel that she is, soon appears with an urban version of the three billy goats. "Good enough!" I say and we're off. I prop the doors of the library open so I can push the behemoth stroller through. Clayton heads out the door, but when he gets outside he plops down on the sidewalk so he can read The Three Cool Kids. Everyone is loaded up, again, library books slotted next to Clayton in his carseat, stroller dumped on top of the bikes. The girls are losing it and cry all the way home. Clayton's begging, "Momma, read this book!" from the back. Townes looks like he'd be asleep already if not for all the screaming.
12:00 We pull into the garage, girls still crying. I hate to leave one screaming in the car while I carry the other upstairs, so I opt for the Ergo. I have to lay Dee Dee down on the garage floor while I put it on since she won't bend her legs to sit. Finally, she's in the Ergo, I've got Sylvia in my arms, but, uh-oh, the boys are still buckled in. Clayton I can do one-handed, but Townes is harder. Dee Dee starts to cry again; I've accidentally banged her head into the van door as I reach to unbuckle Townes. Oops. I put Sylvia down so I can reach Townes carseat-- more tears. Clayton's still carrying his book: "Momma read the Three Billy Goats Rough?"
I put Sylvia in her booster, throw a pizza in the microwave, pour milk into sippy cups. "I don't WANT pizza!" Clayton announces. Any other day, any other moment, I would have said, "Tough, that's what's for lunch," but at the moment I don't have the energy to hold that particular line. The quesadilla Townes didn't eat for lunch yesterday is in the fridge, so I give that to Clayton. Within minutes, though, he's coveting the pizza Townes isn't eating for lunch today.
After the boys (or rather, Clayton) eats, I change Townes' diaper and we head down the stairs for quiet time. I've thrown some banana puffs on the girls' trays to keep them happy for a few more minutes. Halfway down the stairs I remember Clayton hasn't peed, so back up we go.
"Momma, say, 'Look at Clayton peeing on the potty, Townes." Dutifully, I repeat my line, although Townes is already watching intently.
I put an exhausted Townes into his pack-n-play, get Clayton set up on the futon, run to the car to get him the library books (he usually reads while Townes naps), and head back up to the girls. I throw a few more banana puffs on Sylvia's tray while I change Dee Dee's diaper and put her to bed. I then take off Sylvia's pants and diaper to sit her on the potty. I am so accustomed to her pooping on the potty that I am shocked to see that the diaper I am holding is full of poop; I guess she got tired of waiting for her turn. I've gotten her cleaned up and into bed (if not to sleep) when I think, "I still smell poop!" I look down and realize why: the front of my shirt is covered with unmistakable brown smears. I strip to my nursing bra and throw the shirt in the laundry, but I don't want to go into my room to get another with Dee Dee finally asleep. Plus, I'm starving. I'm finally putting cheese on toast after several trips to Sylvia's room to find her pacifier-- she's finally quiet-- when I hear the clomp, clomp of little feet on the stairs and Clayton appears at the baby gate. No, I think, it can't be...
"I had a nice rest!" he announces. "I want to watch my videos now." I look at the clock. It has been over thirty minutes since I put him and Townes down, the minimum amount of "quiet time" I insist on.
"Can't you do ten more minutes?" I plead.
"I had a nice rest!"
Reluctantly I set him up on the couch and put on one of the videos we checked out at the library. It seems loud, though, so I reach for the remote to turn it down and accidentally mash the wrong button. The screen goes blank.
"Uh-oh, Momma!" Clayton says.
I am sure I just changed the channel accidentally, but nothing I do seems to fix it. Meanwhile Clayton keeps repeating, "I want to watch my video. I want to watch my video. What happened to it? Your boobies!" He's pointing at my chest, and I realize I'm still in my bra.
"Stop talking!" I tell him.
He looks at me in surprise and something very close to indignation. "I want to talk!"
"You're right," I tell him. "You can talk, but I can't fix this. How about you watch videos on the computer?" (Thank God for youtube!)
I eat my cheese toast and try to clean up the kitchen from both its breakfast and lunch mess while Clayton watches old Bugs Bunny videos. I'm making some headway when I hear Townes crying. Already? I bring him upstairs and think, "This time I'll do this right." Townes doesn't like to watch videos, so I find a Thomas the Tank Engine sticker and coloring book that Clayton has long since lost interest in. I get out the markers and set Townes up at the end of the coffee table.
Clayton looks up from his videos. "That's my book!" He grabs it from Townes, tears the cover, and throws it onto the floor. I close the laptop on Clayton's videos and haul him kicking and screaming to his bed for another time-out.
Several minutes later: Clayton comes out of his room from his time out, Townes is playing with a train at the coffee table. "My train!" Clayton says and tries to pry it from Townes' grip. Townes gets mad and throws it, startling Dulce who has a painful lump on her head that was just diagnosed as cancerous the day before. Immediately Clayton grabs another train and throws it, nearly missing Dulce again. The rage I feel surprises me. I pick Clayton up to take him to his room-- again. I am not yelling, but somehow it's worse. I am practically growling at him through clenched teeth, all my anxiety about Dulce over the last few awful days channeled into that moment: I cannot stand to see her hurt any more than she already is.
2:00 The next round is less dramatic, but Clayton is still being a pest, flying his airplane around Townes' head, trying to make him cry. Townes obliges easily. By afternoon he is fragile, ready to go home.
I give Clayton a choice: play in his room or on the porch. Physical separation seems the best approach right now.
"On the porch!" he says.
"Okay," I say, and lock the door after him. Townes I take outside through the back door. It is several peaceful moments before Clayton realizes what's happened. He's trying to get back inside, but I call to him, "We're down here!"
He's still on the other side of the fence, so I've got some leverage. I tell him he has to play nicely or he's going back in.
The next twenty minutes or so are bliss, comparatively. Clayton is smearing play dough all over the driveway, Townes is riding his bike saying every twenty seconds, "Momma at work," the girls are eating play dough and pulling each other's hair, but relatively, there's peace. When Don finally comes home after three, we are the picture of domestic bliss.
Don is going to take the lawn mower to a welder since the wheel fell off last weekend. "Why don't you take all three?" I suggest. "They might like the ride." I can't get them loaded up fast enough. When Townes' father finally picks up Townes twenty minutes later, I collapse into a chair on the porch. I'm supposed to go for a run but all I want to do is eat cookies. So I do.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Oh poop!
Now that Clayton's out of diapers, he's a little more reluctant to move his bowels. (So far he’s had better luck in the driveway, in the back yard, and on the back steps than in the potty.) Last week two days went by without a poop. On the third day he complained, "My stomach hurts, Mama." By evening, it was clear the time had come, but by then things were pretty well impacted. His face contorted as he strained. "Mama, it hurts my nose," he told me from where he sat on his potty in the living room. "It hurts my mouth!"
His little face was so worried and his calls for "Mama!" so pitiful, I quickly abandoned the dishes and went to sit and read with him. "You've got to let it out," I told him. "Just squeeze my hand when it hurts." We read Harry and the Terrible Whatzit together, and when the urge to push came upon him he would grab my hand and squeeze while I praised and encouraged him. (“Remember to breathe,” I wanted to tell him. “Imagine the baby.” )
During one particularly violent episode, Clayton vomited a little onto the floor in front of him. “What was that?” he said with true surprise. (The first time one vomits with full consciousness it must be pretty weird.) I tried my best to explain. “You know how sometimes Dee Dee spits up a little? It’s kind of like that.”
“Mama wipe it up?” Clayton does not like messes.
I set a bowl between his knees to catch any more “spit-ups” and resumed my position beside him. The stench was horrendous. The open floor plan of our house ensured that the whole living area—kitchen, dining room, living room-- now stunk like a ripe latrine. Don had taken over the dishes and was trying not to gag. “It smells like a possum exploded in here,” he said.
Meanwhile Clayton continued to strain, but now when the movements came upon him he leaned over the bowl while clutching at my hand and whispering, “Mama!” In terms of pure grossness, few experiences in my life could rival it. And yet, I felt completely unfazed. It could, I imagine, have felt like one of the reviled but required parts of a parent’s job description, like writing discipline referrals or serving lunch duty are to teaching (just a whole lot grosser.) Instead, it felt like if one could distill motherhood down to its purest essence, this would be it. There was my son, in pain and afraid, confronted with one of life’s basest demands. He was on new and frightening territory, unsure of what was happening to him, and so he looked to me for help, relief, understanding. There was no way I could protect him from this, no way I could make the trial before him disappear. The best I could do was stay by his side and hold his hand. Even as my lungs were bursting with the stench, my heart was bursting with love, compassion, and pride. “Good job, Clayton! You’re doing it! You’re doing it!” Never before had a bowel movement assumed such significance.
* * *
My first year of college, during track season, I got a stomach bug. Vomiting into the toilet in the dorm bathroom, I missed my mom like I never had before. Years later, I got food poisoning (or Montezuma’s revenge) while working in a cloud forest in Ecuador. As I cleaned up my own puke from around the shared, dirty toilet, trembling with exhaustion, I missed her again, desperately. It also occurred to me to wonder how she’d done it. (I remembered my best friend vomiting on our patio once and how just the smell of it had made me gag. I’d run away, yelling for my mom.) It makes sense to me now. It’s not that mothers are immune to how gross these things are. It’s just that when it comes down to it, the bodily fluids, however disgusting, are nothing compared to the love that boils up when our children need us most.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
So... what do you do?
The other day I received a letter from Wesleyan University, my undergraduate alma mater, with information about an upcoming reunion. Enclosed was a form with pre-printed information that would, I assume, be included in some kind of alumni directory. "Please make any necessary changes and return," it said. It looked good at first: name, address, email... nothing had changed. But then I got to the "occupation" section, with "teacher" listed as my profession and Henderson County Public Schools as my employer. I hesitated before crossing off "Teacher." I mean, can't I still be a teacher, even though I don't have a job? But leaving it there felt disingenuous, like I'd made this decision to take care of my kids full time but wouldn't own up to it. Harder still was knowing what to put after I'd crossed it off. Stay-at-home-mom? Housewife? Homemaker? Daycare provider? Ugh. All of the possible labels felt wrong. I pictured someone at Wesleyan updating the directory and thinking, "She went to Wesleyan to be a 'homemaker?' You've got to be kidding me!" I imagined old classmates pitying my lack of ambition. Hell, sometimes I can't help but question it myself. I graduated summa cum laude with University Honors and now I'm pulling an over-loaded wagon around mindlessly, making dinosaurs pretend to snack on Clayton's toes, singing endless renditions of "The Wheels on the Bus." This is why, I think to myself, so many moms want to work. "I have more to give my child when I have the mental stimulation of work," they say diplomatically. In other words, "Being around my kid(s) all the time I'd die of boredom."
Nonetheless, as Don gears up for the school year, I find that I am at peace with my decision not to go back to work. Privately, that is. It feels right for myself, my kids, my family. Publicly is another issue. Why does it matter to me what some worker at Wesleyan a thousand miles from here thinks of me? And why do I automatically assume they'd look at me with scorn? I remember when I went to my high school to tell my co-workers I wouldn't be coming back. I had steeled myself for their disappointment, a reaction of surprised or even pitying disbelief that I'd give up a job I so obviously loved. Instead I was touched by the affirmation I received: You'll never regret it; It was the best decision I ever made; It's the hardest job you'll ever do, but it will always be worth it. Many of the working moms I know looked wistful when I told them I'd resigned. More than one told me, "I wish I could do that."
So why, I wonder, do I fear that, despite so many people's support of my decision and apparent admiration of the "job" I have taken on, I am secretly being looked down on? Why do I always hear the unspoken "just" in front of "stay at home mom?" Is it just my own insecurities that make me feel this way, or am I attuned to some subtle-- or maybe not so subtle-- societal message that being "just" a mom isn't really enough?
Sometimes I feel like I'm being strangled by history. After all, wasn't it exactly what I'm doing now-- wife at home, taking care of house and kids-- that inspired The Feminine Mystique? All my life I have reaped the benefits of the feminist movement that proclaimed that women could do more, much more, than this. (All my life, too, I have reaped the benefits of having a brilliant mom who put her kids and family ahead of her career.) I remember how in high school a girl who rode my bus confessed one day that all she wanted to do in life was "have kids and keep house." I was amazed, disdainful, pitying... How could she have so little ambition when we finally had the freedom to do whatever it was we wanted?
And, of course, that's what it comes down to, really. Nobody expects me to do this; I certainly don't have to. But I had the opportunity to ask myself, "What do you want?" and the freedom to choose. I love writing it like that, making it seem so simple, when at times the complexity of the issue overwhelms me. There are questions about housework (Now that I'm home, is it my job to unload the dishwasher?), money (Is it as much mine now as before?), career (How will this hiatus affect mine?), relationships (How do Don and I stay connected when our daily lives are now so different?) society (How do we value the job mothers do and still inspire women to climb to the top?), and craftsmanship (How do I do this job well?). Still, despite all the questions and complexity, there is a simplicity there that I'd do well to cling to. Clayton knows. Tonight at bedtime I talked to him about Townes coming to our house everyday--he's overjoyed at the prospect--when his mom goes to work. "His momma goes to work. His daddy goes to work. My daddy goes to work," he says. "You don't go to work." No, I take care of my kids, I say. "You take care of me, Sylvia, Dee Dee, and Townes!" He lists off the names slowly, thoughtfully, enthusiastically. He has no inkling of the little tendrils of shame I have to shake off every time I tell someone I'm no longer working. With him, there is absolutely no judgement; there is just joy. And that is the lesson for me tonight!
Nonetheless, as Don gears up for the school year, I find that I am at peace with my decision not to go back to work. Privately, that is. It feels right for myself, my kids, my family. Publicly is another issue. Why does it matter to me what some worker at Wesleyan a thousand miles from here thinks of me? And why do I automatically assume they'd look at me with scorn? I remember when I went to my high school to tell my co-workers I wouldn't be coming back. I had steeled myself for their disappointment, a reaction of surprised or even pitying disbelief that I'd give up a job I so obviously loved. Instead I was touched by the affirmation I received: You'll never regret it; It was the best decision I ever made; It's the hardest job you'll ever do, but it will always be worth it. Many of the working moms I know looked wistful when I told them I'd resigned. More than one told me, "I wish I could do that."
So why, I wonder, do I fear that, despite so many people's support of my decision and apparent admiration of the "job" I have taken on, I am secretly being looked down on? Why do I always hear the unspoken "just" in front of "stay at home mom?" Is it just my own insecurities that make me feel this way, or am I attuned to some subtle-- or maybe not so subtle-- societal message that being "just" a mom isn't really enough?
Sometimes I feel like I'm being strangled by history. After all, wasn't it exactly what I'm doing now-- wife at home, taking care of house and kids-- that inspired The Feminine Mystique? All my life I have reaped the benefits of the feminist movement that proclaimed that women could do more, much more, than this. (All my life, too, I have reaped the benefits of having a brilliant mom who put her kids and family ahead of her career.) I remember how in high school a girl who rode my bus confessed one day that all she wanted to do in life was "have kids and keep house." I was amazed, disdainful, pitying... How could she have so little ambition when we finally had the freedom to do whatever it was we wanted?
And, of course, that's what it comes down to, really. Nobody expects me to do this; I certainly don't have to. But I had the opportunity to ask myself, "What do you want?" and the freedom to choose. I love writing it like that, making it seem so simple, when at times the complexity of the issue overwhelms me. There are questions about housework (Now that I'm home, is it my job to unload the dishwasher?), money (Is it as much mine now as before?), career (How will this hiatus affect mine?), relationships (How do Don and I stay connected when our daily lives are now so different?) society (How do we value the job mothers do and still inspire women to climb to the top?), and craftsmanship (How do I do this job well?). Still, despite all the questions and complexity, there is a simplicity there that I'd do well to cling to. Clayton knows. Tonight at bedtime I talked to him about Townes coming to our house everyday--he's overjoyed at the prospect--when his mom goes to work. "His momma goes to work. His daddy goes to work. My daddy goes to work," he says. "You don't go to work." No, I take care of my kids, I say. "You take care of me, Sylvia, Dee Dee, and Townes!" He lists off the names slowly, thoughtfully, enthusiastically. He has no inkling of the little tendrils of shame I have to shake off every time I tell someone I'm no longer working. With him, there is absolutely no judgement; there is just joy. And that is the lesson for me tonight!
Friday, August 12, 2011
The Long Claws of Looking Good
I watch the neighborhood kids on the waterslide, their lithe, lean bodies glistening in the spray. And there is Clayton with his round face and tubby belly, looking on as they climb and splash, climb and splash. The peditrician hesitated at his last doctor visit when I asked if we needed to be worried about his weight. "Aware, yes," she said. "Worried yet, no." But of course I worry. I don't want Clayton to be one of the fat kids. Even as the number of overweight children grows, I can't imagine that those kids are any less ostracized, ridiculed, or teased than the fat kids with whom I went to school. I never want my son to experience that.
I told my sister once that there was no excuse for letting a dog become obsese, since we humans are in complete control of what and how much our dogs eat. I suppose the same is true of children, although of course it's harder. A dog has a limited repitoire for cajoling more food out of us: snuffing around the kitchen floor for crumbs, laying his drooling muzzle in our laps, licking the bottom of his empty bowl. Clayton, on the other hand, threw a twenty minute tantrum yesterday when I refused to put more strawberry jam on his PB and J. When I tried to scimp on the cream cheese on his bagel this morning, it did not escape his notice. "I want more cream cheese, Mama," he insisted. I almost refused but then I looked at his bagel-- one half of the extra-thin, whole wheat, low cal variety-- and thought, I wouldn't want it like that, either.
Plus, he's not even three. And it's not like he eats junk. Sure, he gets the occassional ice-cream treat. He usually has one low-fat graham cracker as an afternoon snack. He, gasp, had french fries with his quesadilla when we went out to dinner last night. But in general he eats like we do-- healthy, vegetarian fare-- without the bowls of ice-cream we enjoy when he's already in bed, the sugary Corn Pops Don eats for breakfast ("That cereal's for grown-ups," we tell him), the chocolate I sneak out of the cupboard when he's not looking.
Don is convinced there's nothing to worry about, that the weight will come off sooner or later. But I love Clayton so fiercely that I want to protect him from everything. I couldn't stand for him to have to endure the stigma of being fat. So the other day when he wanted a third piece of toast after his two egg breakfast, I told him no. And then I explained, "If you eat too much, you get fat. And then you can't run fast, or ride your bicycle fast." Running and riding fast are things Clayton really cares about; I could see him considering this. He dropped the request for more toast, but later I wondered if I'd done right. At this age, so much of his understanding of the world is based on what we tell him. I'd never even heard him use the word fat, and already I've helped create for him exactly the kind of negativity around the concept that I want to protect him from.
When I talked to Don about all this, he said, "I don't want him to look at his belly and feel bad about himself." He's right, of course. I woke up the next morning feeling ashamed, as if the poisonous drip of our beauty culture was already seeping into his world, and that it was I who had let it in.
So many of my parenting concerns are fleeting. Today Clayton jumped on the trampoline, raced around the house pretending to be the three blind mice, ran up and down the hill behind our neighbor's house again and again after dinner. So he's got some persistent baby fat-- so what? I feel silly for having worried, and yet I'm saddened, too, that our cultural obsession with beauty could reach so deeply into childhood.
As adults, we feel its claws daily. My friend was recently outraged and embarrassed when at a pre-wedding pedicure, everyone but she got the typical leg massage. "I was the only one with un-shaven legs," she told me, "and I didn't get one." At brunch last week, I looked at my friends' perfect toes and wondered if I, too, should shell out the thirty something bucks on a pedicure. Is this something grown-up women are just supposed to do? I've had attending to my toes on my to-do list for over three weeks, but somehow it's not a top priority when I have a few moments to myself.
Don likes to joke that if you wear sweat pants out of the house, you've "given up." Often these days, that’s how I really feel. I lug the kids to the grocery store without changing the stretched out, spit-up stained t-shirt I'm wearing, my unwaxed legs exposed, my toenails dirty and my hair in its perpetual ponytail. I look at my friend's taunt stomach and wonder if maybe I should join a gym, or sneak a little less chocolate. I envy my neighbor's stylishly highlighted hair. My own hasn't been washed in days, the greasy roots hidden under a baseball cap. Every evening I step on the bathroom scale, try to let the numbers reassure me that, even though my stomach bulges beneath my tanktop in a way that even after eighteen months of pregnancy and postpartum I'm still not used to, I am not fat. I'm not stupid, nor anorexix. I can see the outline of my ribs beneath my collar bone. I weigh less now than I have since high school. I know I'm not fat. But that did not stop me from weeding the figure-hugging dresses out of my closet, does not stop me from asking myself and my husband almost daily: "Do I look fat?" Because even if I'm smart enough to know that I'm not, it sometimes feels like the looking is all that matters.
I remember the scene in When Harry Met Sally when Billy Crystal runs into Meg Ryan after not seeing her since college. "Did you look this good then?" he asks her, and she laughs and shakes her head. As I've gotten older, I've learned to appreciate that line. Not only do we gain distance from our younger selves' fashion disasters, but younger doesn't always mean prettier. Maybe it takes some good long years before we figure out how to really shine in our own skin. Sometimes I haul the kids to the grocery store and I feel good. I'm lucky to have gotten my figure back so quickly; my arms are toned as they haven't been in years from hefting carseats and babies. Plus, I've got three kids, so it doesn't matter how I look. And maybe that's what makes me feel so good.
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